


The Distance to Where You'd Be

by ariel2me



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis Baratheon sits on the Iron Throne, his daughter Shireen is his heir, a princess prepares herself for ruling, a marriage is proposed.  </p><p>Chapter 10: The Princess and the Knight</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Words

Her father had shown her The List, of all the things that must completed before her seventeenth nameday. Before she was officially heralded as the Crown Princess, heir to the Iron Throne. The laws that must be passed, to safeguard her inheritance. And of course, her father’s insistence that she be betrothed before her nameday.

“Why? It will be years before I am actually Queen.”

“Seventeen is old enough to be married. And you need an heir. I will not have the kingdom thrown into another succession war.”

She had looked at her father suspiciously.

“You must choose soon, or I will do it for you. You’re lucky I’m even giving you a say in the matter.” And that had ended the conversation.

 _If father is so desperate for me to be married, he’s going about it the wrong way_ , Shireen thought. The list of suitors had decreased considerably since her father had announced the new law. The future Queen’s husband will not be awarded any title - King or Prince. He will be barred by law from serving in the Small Council. The children born from the marriage will carry the Baratheon family name, instead of their father’s. 

Her father had explained to her the reasons for the law. To protect House Baratheon’s lineage as the royal family. To protect the Queen from undue influence by her husband or her husband’s family. To protect the Queen’s right, and duty, to rule on her own.

 _To protect, to protect, to protect._ Her father had used those words repeatedly. She resented the implication. That he did not trust her judgment and ability. That in his eyes, she was still a child who needed protection. _After everything he’s put me through, to ensure that I am ready.  
_

Shireen was her father’s daughter after all, so she confronted him. Anger had been his response.

“If you had actually been listening when I was trying to teach you something, you would have known how important it is to enshrine things in the law. Instead, you decided to turn it into something personal, about hurt feelings.” He had shouted the word ‘feelings’ as if it was the dirt at the bottom of his feet.

Her mother had calmed her anger and frustration. Not with soothing or sweet words, but with more blunt truth.

“This is why I wanted a son. Not because I don’t love you, or I don’t trust your ability. But because there will be so many dangers ahead for you. Your father is only doing what has to be done.”

“I am surrounded by blunt truth-tellers,” she had told Devan later. “Lie to me. Tell me I’m beautiful.”

“You’re not beautiful,” he had replied.

She had laughed. “Of course. You’re even less capable of lying than my father.”

For some reason, Devan had looked confused, as if he had misunderstood the rule of a game. In many ways, he was still that earnest boy who learned to read and write with her, her father’s squire who she had used as a source of information about her own father. _If it weren’t for Devan, I would have known next to nothing about father as a child._

She did not have any illusion about her looks. Even without the grayscale marring her face, she knew the best way people would describe her was ‘homely’. The word made her laugh inside. _I am so ugly I should stay home? Not likely_ , she thought. _I will be Queen and my people will see me as I am._

“His Grace only has your best interest at heart, Princess Shireen.” Devan suddenly spoke, after a long silence.

The deep voice reminded her that he was no longer a boy. He was a knight now, a gold cloak, serving the City Watch. And the one thing he wanted more than anything was to exchange the gold cloak with a white one, to be a member of the Kingsguard, serving and protecting her father once again.

“Why, when you could be the Lord of Rainwood, ruling over your own land someday?” She had asked him once. Devan had blushed and said nothing. But she knew the answer. Because of her father. Boys, and their loyalties. Men, and their loyalties.

There was a vacancy in the Kingsguard, and it had been widely expected that her father would name Devan to fill it. Devan had proven himself in the City Watch, recruiting and training new members, turning sons of bakers and farmers and former ruffians into respectable and able members of the Gold Cloaks. But almost a moon. and the Kingsguard was still missing one in its number.

She wondered at times if being the son of the King’s Hand actually put Devan at a disadvantage. Shireen knew how valuable Lord Davos’ counsel and opinion were to her father, and knowing Lord Davos, he would not be the kind of person who would speak up on behalf of his own son for a position.

_But surely father knows about Devan’s ability and loyalty better than anyone, perhaps even better than Lord Davos. Why has he not named Devan to the Kingsguard?_

“My father does as he wishes and expects everyone else to fall in line.”

“Most daughters do not have a say in who they will marry after all. Your father is giving you a chance to choose.”

“To choose among a bunch of suitors I do not really know, before my nameday. That is only two moons away.”

“You have met all of them. _Some_ … more than once.”

There was a strange note in Devan’s voice as he said the word ‘some’. Shireen wondered who he was thinking about.

“Have you heard anything about the Kingsguard?

No answer. Shuffling of feet, hands suddenly on the side of his body, at full attention mode. She knew the sign. _There is something he does not want me to know._ She would have heard if her father had named someone else.

“Out with it, Ser Devan. You were always very bad at hiding things.”

“Your father … His Grace .. spoke to me the day before yesterday.”

“And?” He was testing her patience.

“He asked … he wanted to know certain … _things_.”

 _Certain things_? She thought incredulously. He could not have been more vague if he had tried.

“Questions related to the Kingsguard?”

She could see the wheels turning in his head. _‘_ I have said too much. This could cause discord between the Princess and the King _._ ’ _Oh you are so transparent, Devan_.

“It is too late, Ser Devan. You have said too much. What were the questions my father asked of you? Or I will go to him right now and accuse him of all manners of wrongdoings towards you.”

The blood drained from his face. _Boys and their loyalties_ , she thought again.

“His Grace was concerned that there could be … complications, if I am a member of the Kingsguard, no, the Queensguard, once you are on the Throne, Princess Shireen.”

“What sort of complications?”

“That there might be … talk … from certain quarters.”

She snorted. “My father does not care a whit about ‘talk’. Words are wind, he’d say. And what sort of talk? Because your father is the King’s Hand?”

The expression on his face told her immediately that was not the reason. He looked so uncomfortable and miserable, she did not have the heart to push him further. They stood silently for ages, with her trying to catch his eyes, him staring at his feet. After a while, Shireen noticed that other pairs of eyes were watching them. Intently.

 _Oh._ She suddenly realized. _Oh. That kind of ‘talk’_.

Yet her anger was not directed towards those watching them, but towards her father. How could he even think that Devan …? That the boy who was the last to board Salla’s ship that ill-fated day at Blackwater Bay because he refused to leave his King, would be capable of anything improper towards the King’s daughter? That the man whose only wish was to guard his King once again could be deserving of that kind of suspicion?

_I have always thought you a discerning man, father. A man with wise judgment, even if your words were not always wise, or kind.  
_

Shireen and Devan took their leave from each other, and she considered her next move. _It’s pointless to confront father when I am this angry_ , she thought. _Anger makes fools out of men. And women_. A lesson her father had repeated to her time and time again. Even though he often did not abide by his own lesson. The only way she could hope to win the argument was to confront her father at her calmest moment. And by winning the argument, she meant to convince her father to name Devan as a Kingsguard.

Her father did not eat with them that night, he had his meal in his room, a more and more common occurrence of late. _I will confront him in his room, in the morning, before the Small Council meeting._ Having her in his room always made her father uncomfortable, as if she was intruding on a secret he did not wish for her to know.

They usually spoke to each other in his study. Amidst the books and the papers and letters, and the lists. Oh the lists! She had despaired of them in the beginning, after her thirteenth nameday, when he had decided that “it is time she involves herself in the running of the kingdom”, as he had put it. _Around the same time mother finally gave up on having a son_.

Maester Pylos had been given his own lists by her father, over the years, since her father had ascended to the Throne. All the things she needed to learn and know. But her father had left the supervision of her learning to the maester.

That arrangement ended after her thirteenth nameday. Her father was supervising her learning personally, and he could not have been more different than the kindly maester. He was strict, he was demanding, he required detailed reports from her, written and spoken. He was critical of her writing (“I will have maesters to write for me when I am Queen.” “You are not Queen yet.”), of her timid voice (“How do you expect anyone to obey your command if you speak like a scared child?” “That’s better than growling like an angry bear and grinding your teeth at everyone all the time.”)

They had argued and fought and stared at each other in anger and disgust countless times since then. It was exhilarating, and Shireen had loved every moment of it. She was no longer the scared, timid little girl who was afraid of her own father. The father who lived a long distance away from her and her mother for most of her childhood, whose letters arrived very rarely, and whose visits home were even rarer.

And he was proud of her, she knew, for standing up to him, for the moments of sudden revelations arrived on her own, for the times when she actually bested him in an argument. But most of all, for the joy she took in learning about ruling, and the law, and duty. They had never spoken of it directly, but Shireen had always known that her father did not want her to share his joyless, grim determination about doing his duty. Like other parents, he had wanted more for his child than what he ever managed for himself. 

 _Then why are you forcing me to marry now, when I am not ready?_ She banished the question from her mind. She was here to speak to her father about Devan, not about her marriage.

His door was half opened. His squire must have went out for a moment to fetch something, she thought. To her surprise, her father was still in bed. The sun was up, the day had started, and Stannis Baratheon was still in bed. _Did the world end yesterday, and I did not notice?  
_

She was slowly walking out of the room, when she heard his voice.

“I suppose this is your idea of trying to get the upper hand in an argument? Sneaking up on someone?”

She turned around to face him, and saw that he was actually already dressed for the day. He was sitting on his bed, and he motioned her to sit on the chair furthest away from him.

_Now it is you who are trying to get the upper hand._

She took the chair he pointed to and moved it closer to the bed, so the two of them were sitting across each other, face to face. All the words she had planned very carefully went out of her head as she stared at his pale, haggard face. Her father looked as if he had not slept for days.

“Father -“

“I suppose Devan told you about our meeting?”

_Were those his spies? Did he send people to spy on us?_

“And I suppose some little birds whispered to you about our conversation?”

“Not any bird I sent, only general chatter. Which proved the point I was making to Devan.” _  
_

“Which is what, exactly? That Stannis Baratheon suddenly cares about idle chatter?”

“If Jaime Lannister had not been a Kingsguard, the war that consumed the realm for so long would never have started.”

The sudden change in subject bewildered her.

“And if there had been no war you would not be sitting on the Throne right now. But what does that have to do with anything? Jaime and Cersei Lannister, they were twins. They did not start a .. _relationship_ because Jaime was a Kingsguard.”

“But Jaime being a Kingsguard meant he and Cersei could be near each other, every day. Otherwise Jaime Lannister would have been back at Casterly Rock being his father’s heir, and seeing his twin sister perhaps once or twice a year.”

“Yes, the proximity made the incest easier. How is that related to Devan being a Kingsguard?”

“He will be a Queensguard, when you are Queen.”

“If you think … how could you … do you really think that Devan and I would …”

“It doesn’t even have to be true. People would talk, and a war for succession could start with merely words.”

“Baratheons. The succession line is Baratheon, through _my_ line. It does not matter who the father is.”

“It matters if your heir is a bastard.”

“Then I will legitimize him, or her. A Queen can do that.”

“And do you think your husband, and your husband’s family will sit still and accept that?”

“What choice will they have? You have passed so many laws to restrict their influence. They will be powerless.”

“For someone who was so vehemently denying any kind of relationship with Devan a minute ago, you sound as if you have put a lot of thought into this.”

Unbelievable, she thought, how her father could twist her words around. “I was reacting to your arguments, debating your points! That is what you taught me to do. I was not constructing a justification for a wrong I am planning to commit in the future.”

“Most of the time people never planned to do wrong. They just fell into it. Consumed by feelings, lust, perhaps even love.”

“Devan was your squire. We shared some lessons together, when we were children. That is the extent of our … _relationship_.”

“Do you understand what it means to be a Kingsguard? Not the duties, but the things he would have to give up?”

“They are barred from owning land, taking a wife and fathering children. Yes, father, I remember my lessons.”

“And is that what you want for Devan?”

“It’s what Devan wants for himself. Land, title, a wife, children, he would give all that up for a chance to serve you again. Like he did, for years, as a boy. Leaving home, his mother and his little brothers when he was barely eight, to serve as your squire. And he has earned it. He is the best man for the position, you cannot deny that. You are only denying it to him because of this fantasy you have created in your head about … _us_.”

She suddenly realized she was almost shouting. What happened to keeping calm? And her father looked completely exhausted.

“Perhaps we should talk about this la-“

“Have you decided?” Her father interrupted her before she could finish. Another change of subject. It seemed her father was determined to keep her off-balance. She knew what he was asking, though.

“No, I have not. And that is not what we are talking about at the moment.”

“They are related.”

“How?”

“Perhaps Devan is the reason you have not decided on a husband.”

“Or perhaps I do not see any reason for the urgency. It will be years before I am Queen.”

“It will not be years.”

It was strange, Shireen thought later, how five short words could change so much, once it was spoken. She was surprised to realize that she was actually _not_ surprised by those five words, that it was something she had always known, in the deep recesses of her mind,. A thought she was determined to keep un-thought, as if that could keep it from becoming a reality.


	2. A Dream Already Dreamt

This was the way her world changed - by degrees, small steps by small steps, additional task after additional task falling on her shoulder. She measured everything by the firsts; the first time she chaired a Small Council meeting while her father watched by her side, the first time she chaired a Small Council meeting without her father present. She had attended many of the meetings before, and her father had always directed plenty of questions towards her. But it was one thing to be one voice among many on the table, and quite another to be the voice at the head of the table.

“This is what ruling is. Listening to people prattle on and on until someone _finally_ says something worth listening to. And then deciding. Decisions that could mean life and death for your people. And it is on your head and your head alone, the weight of those decisions. Not your Hand, not your Council, not your Grand Maester. _You_ are responsible for everything.” More blunt truths from her father.

“I will not appoint a Regent or Protector of the Realm after my death,” her father had told her. “You are old enough to rule as a Queen, in your own stead.” He had said ‘death’ as if he was taking about the weather, with no change in his tone of voice at all.

Her father’s composure, nay, almost indifference in the face of his own demise unnerved Shireen. The only thing that seemed to preoccupy him was how prepared she would be to rule. Even the question of her marriage had been set aside. Her seventeenth nameday arrived, she was officially declared the Crown Princess and heir to the Throne, and she remained not yet betrothed to anyone.

“A good Queen is more important than a married one,” her father had said. “At least for now. You will not be fertile forever. Remember that. It is your duty to provide an heir for the Throne.”

Even in his ill and weakened state, her father still had the power to drive her to frustration.

“I am not a horse, made for breeding.”

“No, you have a more important purpose. Yet you must breed too, before it is too late.”

She wondered why she had ever thought that dying would soften her father’s rough edges. He was still the same man he always was, possibly with even less patience than before.

Less than half a year, he had told her, the morning she waylaid him in his room to speak to him about Devan and the Kingsguard. That was how long the maester had predicted. “But I will be to ill to attend to the business of ruling the kingdom well before that.”

She had not asked her father the why and the how. Her mother had explained that to Shireen later. Her mother was also a believer in telling the blunt truths, but the truth coming from her had less of the edge and the sharpness of truth coming from her father. And Shireen needed comfort and reassurance, and she needed her mother.   

It had been a long, busy day, and she had not visited her father since the night before. Her mother was reading a letter to him, something official, Shireen thought, judging from the parchment and seal. He looked annoyed and impatient, whether at her mother or the content of the letter, Shireen could not tell. Watching her parents unobserved from the door, she understood why her father had often been called cold and unfeeling.

Shireen had always felt loved by him, even in the dark days of her childhood when she barely saw or spoke to him at all. _I would never have wished for another father_ , she thought, _but I would not have wanted to be married to a man like him._

“A man can contain multitude,” old Maester Cressen, who was like a grandfather to her, had told her once. She was too young to understand back then, but she knew what he had meant now. A loving father can also be an unloving husband.

But perhaps, Shireen thought as she watched her father’s expression softened somewhat, her parents had made their peace with each other, and their marriage. It had endured after all, all these years later. Her father had not fathered a string of bastards like her uncle Robert. And her mother had not sought comfort in another man’s bed, let alone a relative. 

 _I want more than that_ , she realized suddenly, with a jolt. _I want to love, and be loved._

She remembered her father’s question, that fateful morning. “Do you want that for Devan?” A life without wife and children. _I want it for Devan only because I want him to have what he had always wanted_ , _to be a Kingsguard_. That was what she had told herself, over and over again.

But she saw it now for the partial and incomplete truth that it was. That was not the only reason. The thought of Devan betrothed to another woman, married to another woman, in bed with another woman, fathering a string of children with another woman; she had never wanted to contemplate any of it. And she understood why now.

 _Act_ , she told herself. _Act, before it is too late._

But for the first time in a long while, her courage failed her.

What had ended up changing the course of their lives, hers and Devan’s, was her doubts about her father. About his guilt. His complicity. The blood on his hands. The things he did to put himself on the Throne. To put _her_ on the Throne.

All the questions she had never asked him. _Because I did not want to know the answers._

Shireen had been keeping court for her father since he had been bedridden. Devan was in attendance that day, reporting on behalf of the Commander of the City Watch. He had lingered in the Throne room as everyone else was leaving. Shireen noticed Lord Davos giving his son a questioning look as he was walking out, but Devan merely shrugged.

“You look as if you were born to sit on that Throne.”

It was meant as a compliment, she knew, but in her current state of mind, she took the statement  as a barb.

“Well I wasn’t. My father fought a war, and won it for himself, and for me. Doing who knows what in the process.”

She had expected Devan to be surprised by her response, but he merely looked at her. She could not decipher his expression.

“Your father was the rightful King, by law. He never asked for it, he did it because it was his duty. And it was a war, nobody could claim to have completely clean hands. Certainly not the Lannisters. Or the Boltons. Or even the Eastern Queen with her dragons.”

“Is that the justification? That he had less blood on his hands than others?”

“No, it was about what he did once he was on the Throne.”

“So the end justified everything that came before? Uncle Renly, Edric.”

“Edric is alive and well and living in the Free Cities.”

“Only because your father defied mine.”

There was a long pause, as they stared at each other.

“It will not help, you know. Trying to hate him will not make you mourn him less, grieve for him less.” Devan finally said.

“There are so many things I still need to ask him.”

“You already know the answer to those questions. We were children, yes, but we were never foolish children. We knew about Edric, from things hinted and whispered. We knew about your uncle Renly, and the shadow, and who that shadow resembled. We have always known everything there was to know.”

“How could you have stayed loyal to him? You and your father?”

“Because true loyalty is never blind. It does not shut its eyes to flaws, wrongs and imperfections. It deals with those things as it comes. And because a man -“

“-can contain multitude.” They finished the sentence together.

“A flawed man can be a good King.”

J _ust like an unloving husband can be a loving father_ , Shireen thought.

And your father has been a good King. And he has paid for everything that came before.” Devan whispered the last part softly.

She knew what he meant, without needing further explication. It was because of the injuries sustained during the war, and the starvation during the long, desperate march to Winterfel, the maesters had said. But she knew it was all that, and more. The shadow had bled something from her father too, before it had drew blood from her uncle. Nothing came without a price. Everything has to be paid for, in the end.

Perhaps that was why her father was being so calm about his impending death.

She had looked at Devan then, _really_ looked at him, at the man she had previously thought was guilty of blind loyalty and habitual worship of her father. _He sees my father as he truly is, too. And is still able to love him, despite everything. We have that in common._

“His Grace named me to the Kingsguard,” Devan broke the silence.

“I know.”

“Was that his decision? Or .. yours? I thought perhaps … since you are keeping court for him …”

“It was his.”

 _Ask the question_ , she willed him silently.

He did not. He stayed silent instead. _Act_ , she willed herself this time. _Or you will regret it, for the rest of your life._

“I wanted you to be a Kingsguard, in part because of what you would have to give up.”

“And what is that?”

“A wife and children. A chance at family happiness, with another woman. I have been a terrible friend. You have been nothing but a loyal friend to me, but I wanted to deny you a chance at happiness for … my own … reasons.”

“Happiness does not mean a wife and children for every man.”

His answer dismayed her.  “So you really do want a life of celibacy, wifeless and childless?”

“I would not want any woman as a wife except one, but she is out of my grasp.”

Shireen did not hesitate. “No she is not. I am not. Will you be my husband, Ser Devan?”

He did not hesitate either. “Yes, Princess Shireen.

Could it really be this easy? No, this had not been easy, Shireen thought. This was the culmination of a journey began years and years ago.

“It will mean walking three steps behind me, at all times.

“I know.”

“You will not sit on any council. Any counsel you wish to give me will only be in private. Your voice will never be heard in public.”

“I know.”

“Our children will be Baratheons, not Seaworths.”

“Steff and Stanny will sire a legion of future Seaworths.”

She smiled. “This is why you are a good choice. You have brothers, I do not have to worry about your family line dying out.”

“Is that the only reason?”

She was standing on the fourth step leading up to the Throne, and he was standing on the bottom step, so their heads were level with each other. And so were their lips. She leaned for the kiss, taking him by surprise, but only for a moment.

There were no blushing cheeks or embarrassed glances afterwards. Her heart was racing and pounding, but the kiss felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like a hand fitting perfectly into a glove, like a dream already dreamt a lifetime ago.

“What was that for?”

“Well, I had to see for myself if we would be up for the heir-making part of the marriage.”

Devan laughed, an uproarious laugh usually reserved only for his younger brothers.

“My father sired seven sons, as you well know. And _his_ father sired five sons and five daughters.”

It was her turn to laugh this time.

But the mention of daughter brought a cloud into his previously untroubled face.

“Your father … His Grace … he -“

“I will speak to my father.”

“He will not agree to this.”

Shireen considered the statement. “I am not so certain about that.”

It finally dawned on her, that this was what father had wanted all along. Devan and her. “Is that what you want for Devan?” He had asked her. 

_Then why did he not simply tell me, and spare us all the arguments and the fights?_

_Because he wanted me to come to the realization myself. What I want, for myself, for Devan, for us._ Not as something commanded by a father, by a King. This was her father’s gift to her. His final one.

She wanted to weep, but she had no tears left. And this was not the time for that.

“I will speak with him first. He may want to speak to you later. Will you stand firm?”

Devan did not hesitate. “Of course.”

Her father was awake when she came to his room, but her mother was asleep, sitting down on the chair next to his bed, her head resting next to his arm. Her father’s hand wavered over her head, almost, but not quite touching it. Shireen waited at the door, suspended in time, willing him to do … something, anything. _Stroke her hair, touch her face. Could you not do that much for her, even now?_  

He saw Shireen at the door, and promptly dropped his hand. She sighed, and walked towards her parents. She heard her father calling her mother’s name, waking her up.

“I need to talk to Shireen.”

Her mother raised her eyebrows, but said nothing and stood up.

“Be nice. Don’t argue with him,” she whispered to Shireen as she passed her on the way out.

 _Oh, mother_.

She sat on the seat her mother just vacated, next to her father’s bed. They looked at each other in silence. So much to say, so little time to say it.

“I’m marrying Devan,” she finally spoke. “You can find another knight for your Kingsguard.”

“It will be _your_ Kingsguard soon. Your Queensguard. Are you sure you would not rather have him as your protector?”

The “soon” broke her heart, but she steeled herself. _I will not cry_ , she told herself again. _I will not let my grief be another burden for him to carry._

“No, I want Devan in my bed, fathering my children.”

He laughed, as she knew he would.

“Do you think saying that would shock me?”

“No, but I know it would amuse you. But it’s still true. I want him next to me on the Throne.”

He took her hand, and held it tight. “Next to you, but not on the Throne with you. All the laws we have passed should still stand, even if it is Devan.”

“I know. I know my duty, father. I will not change those laws when I am Queen.” She paused. “You have wanted this from the beginning, haven’t you?”

“He will stay by your side the way his father did … no … still does, for me, all these years. His family will not be looking to capitalize on the connection for their own gain. It is the only solution.”

“Why not tell him? He worships you. He would have done anything for you.”

“I don’t want him doing it for me. I need to know -“

”- that he would do it for me. I know. Well, he is convinced _you_ will be against it.”

“But he said yes anyway.”

She laughed. “How do you know I was the one who asked the question? It could have been him.”

“Because I know my daughter.”

The raised eyebrows and the smile faded from his face after a while, and he stared at her intently.

“Did you do this because you think it is what I want? That this is your duty?”

She considered the question. She searched her own heart, and came to a firm conclusion.

“No, I don’t think it’s my duty to marry Devan because that is what you want. But did I ask him to marry me because I know it is your wish? I don’t know. I don’t think I will ever know for certain.”

He waited for her to continue.

“And I am enough of your daughter to consider the political ramifications as well. Everything you have just mentioned. You have taught me well after all.” She smiled, but her father did not smile back.

“But … there is love there too.” She continued.

“On both sides?” Her father’s tone sounded normal, but she could detect the desperation lurking underneath, the need for reassurance.

“Yes.”

Her father turned his face away. _Probably to hide his relief_ , Shireen thought.

“I have wondered lately, about my brother and his wife. Who knows how long Cersei and Jaime had been indulging in their abominable union. But perhaps … if Robert had not been so consumed with the memory of Lyanna Stark, they could have made the marriage work. And the war and all the dead and the maimed could have been avoided.”

_Oh father. How could you be so perceptive about other marriages, but not of your own?_

He turned his face to look at her again, and she realized that he was not only thinking of his brother’s marriage.

“It’s never too late.” She whispered the words in his ear, and kissed his forehead. “You should rest.”

“Go tell Devan all is well. Knowing him, he is probably wondering if I am about to send him to the Wall.”

She laughed.

“And tell your mother … no, ask her if … if she would come back inside.”


	3. All That I Am, All That I Ever Was

“And tell your mother … no, ask her if … if she would come back inside.”

His words were rewarded with a peck on the cheek from his daughter. He watched as Shireen walked out of the room. _Our daughter_ , he thought. _Selyse’s and mine._

He waited. For his wife to come in. Minutes passed. _Perhaps she did not feel like coming back in, after I sent her away._ The thought dismayed him to a degree that he found strange and perplexing. He had taken her sitting by his bed for granted, she had done it for days after all.

She walked in after he had given up hope.

“Well.” Her word came as soon as she was seated on the chair beside his bed.

“Well, what?”

“It seems that your plan worked after all. Shireen and Devan.”

_She was talking to Shireen. That was why it took her so long to come back._

He stared at her. “What plan? Shireen decided on her own. I did not do anything.”

She merely smiled at him. Selyse did not look displeased with the news. She had never been very cordial towards the Seaworths. He wondered if part of her was still holding a grudge over his decision to make Davos his Hand, instead of her uncle.

“What do you think?”

A shrug from his wife. “She has to marry _someone_. At least Devan is someone we know.”

“Besides,” she continued, after a pause, “they are in love. I suppose that will count for something in the long run. We have seen too many political marriages crumbled and all the destruction they caused.”

He tried to hide his look of astonishment, but the way she was looking at him, with an amused expression, told him that he had failed.

“You are not the only observant one in this family. She is my daughter too.”

“Of course. And you know her better than I do.”

“She knows herself better than either one of us.”

The silence stretched out again. It was not an uncomfortable silence, the way it used to be before his illness, when it was just the two of them in a room.

Or at least it was not uncomfortable for him. Selyse however seemed restless, her hand kept smoothing over a small crease on her dress.

_Perhaps I should tell her I would like to be alone._

“Would you like me to read to you?” She asked, before he had a chance to say anything. 

She had started reading to him old letters his parents had sent him. Most of the letters were from his father. His father had always written separate letters to his wife and his sons when he was away. A few had been from his mother, written during that ill-fated trip to find Rhaegar Targaryen a wife.

 _Rhaegar. Rhaegar._ He repeated the name in his head, over and over again. It occurred to him suddenly, out of nowhere, that perhaps the reason for Robert’s unquenchable hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen had been more than what happened to Lyanna Stark. _Our parents died on a trip to look for a wife for Rhaegar._

That was not Rhaegar’s fault, of course. His father the Mad King commanded Steffon Baratheon and his wife to make that trip, not Rhaegar. And it was a storm that killed them, not Rhaegar. But he knew, perhaps better than anyone, how irrational anger and blame and bitterness could be.

 _Did you hate him because of our parents’ death too, Robert?_ _Not just for stealing your beloved Lyanna?_

It felt like the most important question in the world at that moment. _I must ask Robert_ , he thought. _Where is he?_ He tried getting up, but only managed to lift his head up slightly. His hands were grabbing the edge of the bed, when he remembered.

_Robert is dead. Renly is dead. They are all dead._

The hardest part was not the lapse in memory, but the fact that it would always returned. Reality, crashing him back down to earth. 

“What is it? Are you in pain? Should I call Pylos?”

He sighed. “No. And no letters today. Let’s just … sit … together.”

“Well I am sitting. You’re lying down.”

His laughter seemed to shock her. Which seemed like one of the saddest things in the world to him.

What will her life be like, after his death? It shamed him greatly that he had not thought of this before, even once, since he knew of his impending death. Every thought had been focused on their daughter, on the kingdom.

She could even marry again, he thought. But she would have to leave the castle and Shireen, and he did not think she would do that. Would she feel … in the way, redundant, after Shireen was married, with a family of her own? No, Shireen would not let that happen. 

 _We don’t deserve our daughter._ _No_ , he corrected himself. _I don’t deserve her.  
_

She was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something. She was used to his thoughts wandering these days. _The privilege of the dying_ , he thought. There was not really anything more to say about the arrangements. They had talked about it in details, the arrangements for the funeral, and for Shireen’s coronation. The three of them. Davos, Selyse and himself. For once, Davos and Selyse seemed warmer towards each other, more than just cordial. The only one missing from the tableau was Melisandre. She had gone back to Asshai. He did not want to think of _her_ , with his wife sitting next to him.

Did Selyse know? In truth, she was probably closer to Melisandre than he ever was. What did they talk about, when it was only the two of them?

 _The problem with confessing your sins before you die_ , he thought, _is that it might make you feel better, but it leaves the living with a greater burden to carry._

Or was that only an excuse so he could stay silent? A desperate attempt to ensure he would be remembered in a good light?

 _No, she knows all there is to know about me, even without knowing that._ And his greatest sin, to his marriage, and to his wife, was not that transgression anyway, he realized. It was his conduct in the entirety of the marriage.

 _If a dying man apologized, you would have no choice but to forgive. Or to say ‘no, there is nothing to forgive’, even if there actually was something._ His thoughts returned to this, over and over again.

“Shireen would do fine. You have prepared her well.”

“I know. We did not fail too much as parents, I suppose,” he said, with a slight smile.

“I failed to give you a son.”

“If we had a son, Shireen would not be where she is today. I would not trade that for a dozen sons. And … you did not fail on your own.”

They left it at that.

“It’s raining,” she suddenly said.

Not just raining, perhaps a storm was coming too. He heard the sound of thunder. He thought of his parents, and their last moments, as Windproud was sinking. Were they together? Were they holding hands?

He had spent the years since Renly’s death thinking of his little brother’s last moments, every night before he closed his eyes. Did Renly saw his brother’s feature in the shadow? He must have.

But he had never thought of Robert’s last moments before. Robert lying in his sickbed after the boar attacked him, thinking about the realm and the kingdom. He had begrudged it then, that Robert, in his last act before dying, thought only of Ned, appointing him Protector of the Realm. But not any more. He understood it now. Robert was only doing what he thought was best for the kingdom, and for the boy he thought was his son.

Let it go. All the lifetime of accumulated resentments, anger and bitterness, of perceived slights and actual slights.

_I had Davos, and Robert had Ned._

And he thought of Ned’s last moments too. _It was never your fault, I begrudged you for my brother, not for anything you ever did._

“Stannis?”

“I’m still here.”

He did not apologize to his wife. Or to the ghosts roaming around in his head.


	4. Blessings

“Go tell Devan all is well,” Shireen’s father had said. And how should she do that? _Send a messenger to summon him to the castle?_ _No_ , she thought. _I can’t wait that long._ And it would look odd to other people, her summoning Devan to the castle. After all, they were not yet betrothed, even with her father’s blessing. Much safer for her to go to the Tower of the Hand herself and find Devan there. She had been there often, to meet with Lord Davos, the King’s Hand. 

Lord Davos seemed surprised to see her there. The hour was late, she had not realized it was getting dark. She motioned for the guard and her lady’s maid to wait in the corridor while she followed Lord Davos into the hall.

“Princess Shireen. You should have summoned me to the castle. I would have come immediately.”

“No, Lord Davos. It is actually your son Devan I wish to see. Ser Devan, I mean.” She felt awkward and shy suddenly. But she had been in and out of this residence as if it were her own home since she was ten years old. What had changed?

 _Everything_ , she realized.

“Devan is helping Steffon practicing archery in the courtyard,” Lord Davos replied, watching her carefully. Has Devan told his father, about her proposal, and his acceptance of it? _Unlikely_ , she thought. _He would not have said anything to anyone until he heard from me about father._

“I will go to them, then, Lord Davos.”

He looked uncomfortable, as if there was something he wished to say to her.

“Go ahead, Lord Davos. You will be my Hand when I am Queen, you should feel comfortable telling me all the hard truths, like you do with my father,” she smiled encouragingly.

He was still hesitating, and for some reason, looking almost embarrassed. _What on earth could it be?_ Shireen wondered.

_It will be a different kind of relationship, between Lord Davos and myself, and Lord Davos and father. I need him by my side, there is no one I trust more. But what does he see when he looks at me?_

His eyes looked at her with compassion and kindness, she knew. _He thinks father is too hard on me, I have heard them argue about it. But Lord Davos has to be hard on me too, especially in the beginning, when I am still learning._ Part of her wondered if he would be capable of that.

He finally spoke. “It would be better and more proper if he comes in to see you, Princess Shireen. After all you are the Crown Princess now, heir to the Throne, a ruler in your father’s stead while he is ill. You and Devan are no longer children and playmates.”

She nodded. _Yes, I understand._ People might talk. The betrothal has not yet been announced.

He continued. “In fact, it would be more proper for you to summon him to the castle next time. If, that is, there is some business to conduct. And with me too, you should summon the Hand to come to you, Princess Shireen, instead of coming here yourself. I serve at your command.”

“But I always come to you, Lord Davos, when I need your help, usually with something father wanted me to do,” she replied. They both smiled at that, but the smile faded quickly as her father entered their thoughts.

“That was before, my princess. Now you are the Crown Princess, officially the heir, practically running the kingdom while your father is ill. I should come to you, you should command me to come to you. That is how it should be done.”

“My father never worried about doing things the way it should be done according to customs, or what the lords and ladies deemed proper,” she replied.

“Your father …,” He hesitated again.

“I am not my father, you mean?”

“People are used by now to certain … things … from him. And your father won a war, against the other claimants to the throne, and more importantly, against the Others. He has proven himself in their eyes.”

“And I have not.”

“No, you have not, Princess Shireen. I know you are capable, your father knows you are capable, and you know that you are capable. But other people do not.”

“And until they do, I must step carefully?”

“You asked me for the hard truths. I’m giving it to you now.”

There was so much sadness in his eyes and voice as he was telling her this.

“I know. Thank you, Lord Davos. But it does feel strange, coming from you. You were always the one …”

This time, it was her turn to hesitate, searching for the right words.

“The one not telling you the whole truth? Cloaking it with sweet words, or prattle, as His Grace would say.”

They both smiled, thinking of her father.

“No, the one being kind, putting things in a less harsh light,” she said firmly.

“Because you have your father for the hard truths. You don’t need me for that.” 

“And because you feel sorry for me.”

He looked horrified. “No, of course not. It is not my place to do that.”

“Come now, Lord Davos. Hard truths cut both ways, as my father would say.”

He looked to be deep in thoughts. When he finally spoke, it was in a determined tone that let her know that this was something he had pondered about for a long time.

“Yes, I did feel sympathy for you. Your father’s harshness, while I am used to seeing directed to other people, sometimes justifiably, can seem cruel when it comes to his own daughter. But he loves you, very much, even if he was not always able to show it, or say it.” His voice was almost pleading now, wanting her to understand, to know this fundamental fact.

“I know, Lord Davos. I have never doubted his love for me.” 

“It has to be different now,” he continued. “Soon you will not have him to tell you the hard truths, and it will be my job.”

“I know that too.”

It struck her suddenly, that the loss will not only be hers, and her mother’s. This man, who had been by her father’s side even longer than her mother, will be mourning too. Not just a King’s Hand mourning the loss of a king. A friend mourning the loss of a friend? How could she even begin to define that relationship?

Yet she knew, with the same certainty that she knew of her father’s love for her, that the two of them, Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworth, would never have spoken of it in those terms. As a personal loss, personal grief.

 _Men_ , she thought. Men and their ways. _I will talk to father about it_ , she resolved. _Lord Davos deserves more, after everything they went through together, after everything he has given father._

Devan and Steffon walked in before Shireen and Davos could continue their conversation. Steffon was fourteen, almost as tall as his older brother, and as Devan had told her, liked to remind people now that Steff was not a proper name to call a man. The two brothers greeted her, Devan’s face anxious, Steffon’s curious.

“Princess Shireen would like to speak to you, Devan. Perhaps you could escort her to my study?” Davos was looking at his son with a pointed expression.

She put Devan out of his misery as soon as he closed the study door. She was going to tease him about keeping the door open to ward off any further “talk” from people, but he looked like a man awaiting his fate in a trial by combat, she did not have the heart to prolong his agony.

He took her hands after she told him about her father’s blessing, and kissed them both. Their heads were moving closer and closer, the kiss seemingly inevitable, when she pulled back.

“No, not here in your parents’ home, when the betrothal has not yet been announced,” she said. She slid her thumb down his wrist, and felt his pulse racing, just like hers.

“But it was fine in the Throne Room?” He teased.

“Well, the Throne Room is my domain.”

He laughed.

 _Lord Davos must be wondering what we are doing and talking about_ , she thought.

“You don’t seem surprised that father agreed to it, when you were convinced he would be against it before,” she said.

“Because it makes perfect sense. And because His Grace always has the capacity to surprise people, when they least expected it.” All the excitement seemed to have gone out of his voice and face.

 _He’s thinking about father dying_ , she thought. _I should make a list, all the people who will grieve for you, father. Not just as a subject grieving for a king._ He would never thought of it himself.

They were still holding hands, and that was how Devan’s mother found them when she walked in. Shireen was startled, immediately releasing Devan’s hands. Lady Marya  pretended the she had not noticed, and smiled.

“Princess Shireen, it’s very nice to see you here. Will you stay for dinner?”

She had had dinner with them many, many times over the years. _But not this time_ , she thought. Devan should tell them the news himself, so their first reaction would not be confined by politeness and consideration towards her.

 _Perhaps they would not want their son marrying someone with a face marred like mine._ The wildlings had called her unclean because of the greyscale. She thought it very unlikely that the Seaworths would object to the match for that reason, however.

But there was also all the laws her father had passed. That had deterred many of the interested suitors. How would they feel about their grandchildren being Baratheons and not Seaworths? Devan had waved that off easily enough, but she wondered if his parents would feel differently. 

“Thank you, Lady Marya, but I should go, to be with father”

“Yes of course. How is he?”

“The same. No better and no worse.”

“I will pray for you and your mother.”

 _But not father?_ Shireen thought.

As if she knew exactly what Shireen was thinking, Lady Marya continued, “Your father would loathe to think of anyone praying to any god for him. And you will be the one foremost in his mind, not his own fate.”

“Thank you,” Shireen said. She left.

****************

Devan watched her through the window, walking across the courtyard, stopping to speak to Steffon. He could not hear what they were saying, but he could see that they were laughing. His younger brothers never seemed shy or awkward around her at all, even though Devan was the one who had known her the longest.  

He turned away from the window to see his mother looking at him intently, a suggestive smile on her face.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

He kissed her cheek. “Later, I will tell you and father later, together.”

He knew he was probably too old to kiss her now, a man of almost twenty. But he did it anyway, to make up for all the years they were separated. And for the kisses she would not get from her four dead sons.

“Is it good news?” She asked.

“It is to me. I don’t know if it will be to you and father.”

“As long as you’re happy about it, it will be good news to me,” his mother said.

They spoke later, after dinner, in his parents’ room. His mother sitting on the bed, his father pacing around the room, looking restless.

 _Does he know? Suspect?_ _But then father has been distracted and restless since the king fell ill._

“Will you sit down, my dear?” His mother said. 

Devan’s father finally stopped pacing and sat down next top his wife, looking at Devan with an anxious expression.

“What do you want to talk to us about?” His voice was gentle, but firm.

 _Just say it clearly and honestly_ , he thought. “I love Princess Shireen, she loves me too, she has asked me to marry her, and I have agreed. The king has given his blessing. And I’m asking for your blessing now.”

Silence greeted his words. His mother was smiling, but father looked more troubled than before.

“In that order?” Devan’s father finally asked.

“What do you mean, father?

“It happened in the order you recited? The king giving his blessing came last?”

His mother interrupted. “Oh what does it matter? As long as he has given his blessing. Devan and Shireen have loved each other for years, they were only too stubborn and foolish to realize it, or admit it before.”

He looked at his mother, not surprised. _Of course mother would know_ , he thought.

His father continued. “But perhaps he gave his blessing because he did not feel like he could deny his daughter’s wish, when she was about to face a great loss. Not because he truly approves of the match.”

He looked at his wife sadly, and said, “Love is not always enough, my dear.”

Devan’s mother did not flinch. “It was enough for us. It kept us together through everything, from years of separation to the loss of four sons,” she replied sharply.

“Yes, but we were regular people, not future queens.

“It is not like that,” Devan blurted out. “His Grace wanted this all along. That was why he held off naming me to the Kingsguard for so long. He did not want me to commit to that path.”

“If this was what he planned, why not just tell you, or the princess?” His father did not seem convinced.

“Because if he did, they would feel like they were obligated to marry each other. As if it was a duty. They will never be certain of the other person’s feelings, even if they are certain of their own. Did he marry me because of love, or because a king decreed it? Did she marry me because of love, or because a father decreed it?” Devan’s mother laughed, before continuing. “I never would have thought that Stannis Baratheon would have that much insight into love and marriage, but apparently he does, this time.”

Father did not share in the laughter. He looked grim.

 _What is it father? Do you disapprove?_ Devan wanted to ask, but was too terrified of the answer.

“He is not thinking this through, His Grace. Being so ill and weak. The implications. What the other lords will think. How it will make life more difficult for Princess Shireen.”

Devan wanted to ask what his father meant, but his father spoke first.

“I will speak to His Grace tomorrow. We will talk after that.”

_Talk to His Grace about what? To convince him to change his mind?_

“Yes, father.”

His mother followed him to the door and whispered. “It’s not what you’re thinking, the reason why you father is not happy about this. It’s something else, to do with our family, and what people say about his relationship with Stannis. It is not about you.”

“But I’m not thinking anything. I don’t know yet what father’s words meant,” he replied, also in a whisper.

“You will think it later. I know my son. Just remember, it is not because of you. And do not worry. His Grace will set him straight, and convince him this is right.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around, father convincing His Grace about the right thing to do?”

Her mother looked amused. “Oh it works the other way too, sometimes. Only Stannis Baratheon is too wily for your father to know that he’s doing it.”

She only referred to to the king by his name when she was cursing him, after her sons’ death, for example, or when she found him amusing, or praiseworthy in a way she found surprising. Devan’s mother and the king had probably exchanged less than a few dozen words through the years, but at times he felt that his mother knew the king better than his father did, in some ways.

“He’s the competition,” she had told Devan once. “You should always know everything you can about the competition.”

“Competition?” Devan was bewildered.

“For your father’s time, energy, loyalty, love.”

“Love?” He had said incredulously. “Father loves only you.”

“There are many kinds of love, Devan, not only the passionate kind. Remember that.”

He did not understand what she was really saying, but found an opening to tease her, to make her laugh. 

“Is it still very passionate, between you and father?” She had laughed and laughed. 

“Of course, dear. You can ask Steff and Stanny about it.”

Steff and Stanny could be the witness for that, after the family was reunited and living in the Tower of the Hand.

“Please lock the door to your room so we don’t have to see things we don’t need to see,” they had complained.

“Well, maybe you boys should learn how to knock before coming in,” father had said.

“We never had to knock before, it was just mother in her room.”

Later before Devan fell asleep, he struggled to understand his father’s words. It dawned on him finally.

_Father does not think I’m a good enough match for Princess Shireen. And perhaps he is right. I have not distinguished myself in any way._

When the king won his big battle with the Boltons, Devan was not by his side. Bryen Farring had marched with him to Winterfell. Farring had died from the cold and hunger, while Devan was in relative comfort at Castle Black, tending to Lady Melisandre.

_Father, have I been a disappointment? Not making up for the sons you have lost. Forgive me, father. I meant to do better._

The weight of not only his own life, but of four other lives cut short, of all that could have been, pressing on him, all the rest of his days. He had meant to be more, for all of them. Because he was present at that battle too, and he survived, and his brothers did not.

There was guilt too, about how glib he had been when father finally told him about his brothers’ death, talking about god and praying for them. Praying to a god father did not believe in.

_How disappointing he must have found me then, how inadequate. He was hurting, and I muttered about the Red God. Forgive me, father._

His thoughts turned into another worry.

_What if the king changes his mind? Will she insist?_

Her father was dying, she would not, and he would not want her to, for his sake.

 _“I can’t contemplate living without her_ ,” he thought. And then realize the foolishness of that sentiment.

 _Of course I will live, and she will too. That is what people do, they endure and surviv_ e.

But he will never marry another, he knew. He would not consign another woman to a life of unhappiness, living with a man who would rather be with another woman. He had seen too much the cost of that.

_No point worrying about it now. We will face it when it comes, if it comes. Together, Shireen and I._

He thought of the kiss that day, in the Throne Room. The kiss he had imagined,  dreamed about, a thousand times over. Her lips and his. But in his dreams, his hands were always touching her cheeks, both sides, the unmarred one, and the one with the greyscale.

_Both are you, they made you who you are, Shireen, and I love them both. As I love you.  
_

But he had been too shocked that day when she kissed him first, his hands could not move. _Next time_ , he thought. Next time.


	5. Your Man

 

_The Hand should speak with the King's voice_. That had been the words Davos had lived by, since the day King Stannis appointed him as Hand of the King, long before the Iron Throne was within Stannis' grasp.

That, and the Hand must never be afraid to tell the King that he is making a terrible mistake.

Davos could not understand what the King was thinking. They had talked about Princess Shireen's marriage extensively, and had agreed that the best, and safest course of action, was for her future husband to come from a minor family, either from abroad or from within the Seven Kingdoms. Not from one of the influential and powerful families in the Seven Kingdoms, or from the royal family or the ruling family of other kingdoms.

Davos had consulted with various sides, chosen the candidates carefully, and submitted the names for the King's approval. He had one reservation, however, and had brought it up with Stannis.

"Perhaps Princess Shireen should be consulted on this? After all, this will be _her_ husband, _her_ life, _her_ future."

"Not just her future, but the future of the realm," Stannis had replied.

"I understand, Your Grace, but-"

"Yes, yes, she can choose her husband from the list after she has met with all of them. That is more than fair, I should think." That was as far as Stannis was willing to go. Or at least that was the impression he had given at the time.

_But didn't he relent too easily at the time?_ Davos recalled. As if that was not his real plan.

_The King has grown soft, wishing only for Princess Shireen to have the man she loves_ , he thought. Part of Davos rejoiced in it, the man who had only ever been driven by the thought of doing his duty to the realm, finally reduced to one simple calculation - what would make my daughter happy?

_But I can't let him do this._ The thought was like a dagger piercing through Davos' heart. _Not without telling him why this is folly. Why this is dangerous, not just for the realm, but for Princess Shireen as well._

His thoughts turned to Devan. _Forgive me, my son. But if you love her, you would not wish for any harm to come to her either._

He knocked at the door into the King's room, and heard Queen Selyse's voice telling him to enter. _Could she have convinced His Grace of the folly of this match?_

_Perhaps back in the day, she would have,_ Davos thought. _We are in much better terms now, even Marya and the Queen._

And whatever else people might say about Queen Selyse, she loved her daughter, there was no denying that, Davos knew that by now. Even if she objected to the match on the grounds of the Seaworth low birth, or concern about House Seaworth getting more influential, her daughter's happiness would still take precedence over everything else.

_I am being a coward_ , Davos realized. _Hoping that someone else would do the deed. When it is my responsibility to tell the King the folly of his way._

Even now, even close to the end.

Stannis was awake and sitting up in bed. The Queen nodded at Davos.

"Your Grace," he greeted her.

"My Hand has come to visit me, and so early in the morning, before the Small Council meeting. Is this about the business of the realm, or something else?"

Queen Selyse raised her eyebrows, and spoke. "Pay no mind to the King, Lord Davos. He is in a foul temperament this morning, being denied his way by the maesters."

Stannis did not reply to that, or ask the Queen to leave the room, like he normally would when he spoke to Davos. Instead, she was the one who said she had letters to write.

"Will you be back?" Stannis asked.

Davos was surprised.

"Yes, I will." she replied.

"I feel better today. Perhaps we could take that walk."

She glanced quickly to Maester Pylos, standing on the other side of the bed. Pylos shook his head.

"We'll see," she finally said.

Stannis had noticed the look passing between his wife and Pylos however, and started muttering under his breath. Davos could not hear the words. The Queen did not reply. She took Stannis' hand and squeezed it.

"Lord Davos seems troubled, do not add to his worries with your grumblings."

Stannis snorted, but squeezed her hand back. Davos was surprised at the intimacy.

The King motioned for Pylos to leave the room. Pylos seemed to hesitate, but a nod from the Queen convinced him, and he followed her out.

Stannis started talking before Davos could open his mouth, as soon as the door was closed.

"I know what you wish to tell me, my Lord Hand. That my daughter marrying your son Devan is a bad proposition."

"Your Grace, we agreed, it should be someone from a minor family, to avert any squabbling or envious feelings among the powerful families. And to hinder another family other than the ruling Baratheons from having that much influence on the Throne."

"And House Seaworth is a very powerful and influential family, Lord Davos? With riches and influence rivaling, what? House Tyrell? House Martell? Or House Lannister before their fall?"

Davos was taken aback.

"No, of course not, Your Grace. But I am your Hand, and I will be Princess Shireen's Hand when she becomes Queen until she chooses her own. How will it look to the other lords and families if my son is the Queen's husband? House Seaworth, plotting to take over, they will say. The Queen, ruled by the Seaworths, not ruling on her own, a weak ruler, a mere puppet. It will lessen her grasp on power. The whispers will spread from the lords to the small folks. It could be dangerous for her."

The word "rebellion" hang in the air. Davos knew Stannis understood that, without him having to say it.

"And have you and Devan been plotting how to get Shireen under your influence? To rule over her? Are you certain even the two of you working together is enough to overrule my daughter's strong will?"

"Your Grace, it's not about what we will do. Of course we're not planning anything. It's about what other people will believe."

Stannis did not seem to be paying attention to what Davos was saying.

"Of course if your lady wife were to plan it, it might work, she is smart enough to pull it off. But I am not worried, she loves Shireen like her own, she would never do anything that could harm her. I think Shireen is safe from evil Seaworths plotting against her, trying to rule her, trying to rule through her." Incredibly, Stannis seemed almost amused.

"Your Grace, you're not listening to what I'm telling you-"

"No, Lord Davos, you are the one not listening," the King's voice thundered, almost as the way it was before he was ill. But the shouting seemed to exhaust him. He lay his head down, and sighed.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. Perhaps I should leave you to rest. I will come later."

"No, we need to talk about it now, there is not much time left."

Davos could not keep the look of disappointment from his face. He thought perhaps, when Stannis mentioned feeling better and taking a walk earlier ...

"That was just wishful thinking on my part, getting out of this room," Stannis said, as if he knew what Davos was thinking. "Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, dying." He sounded almost wistful. "I will be out of this room, at the very least."

"Your Grace-"

Stannis interrupted before Davos could finish. "If Shireen is your daughter, what do you think is more important? People talking about how she is ruled and manipulated by her husband and his family, or Shireen truly being ruled and manipulated by her husband and his family? Which is worse for the realm?"

"The second, of course-"

"Now do you understand, my lord Hand? Devan, and your family, are the only people I trust in this matter. How could you not see what a perfect solution this is? For the realm. For safeguarding my daughter's position."

Davos had no reply to that. It all made sense, laid down clearly and logically that way.

"So you did not do it because they are in love?" Davos blurted out suddenly, before he knew he was going to ask the question.

More amused expression from Stannis. _He is easily amused these days_ , Davos thought.

"Why? Did you think that this is about love? That I have gone soft in my dying days? That you will have to be the one to tell me to be brutal, to think about the realm and my duty? Of course I was thinking of the realm, and my duty. And my daughter's duty."

Davos looked away, embarrassed. He _had_ thought all that. Part of him was relieved hearing Stannis' answer, but a small part was also disappointed. _I thought perhaps-_

As if he was reading Davos' expression like an open book, or he was roaming in Davos' head reading his thoughts, Stannis suddenly grumbled. "I don't know why people expect dying will change a person drastically. Turn them into another person. It doesn't change who you are, it only reveals more of yourself, the fundamental truth deep inside a person."

_Fair enough_ , Davos thought. But then he thought of something his wife had said.

"Your Grace, if you have come up with this perfect plan to solve everything, then why not just tell Devan and Princess Shireen? Command them to marry, as a King, as a father. They would not have refused, either of them. Why all the subterfuge? The list of suitors for Princess Shireen, naming Devan to the Kingsguard. What was all that for?"

Stannis looked like one of Davos' sons caught with his hand inside a freshly-baked pie in the kitchen.

_Marya was right after all_ , Davos thought. How is it that she knew Stannis could be capable of this loving and generous act for his daughter, and he did not?

"I suppose when Devan gave you the news, you made him feel like he is not good enough for my daughter?" Stannis' question came as a surprise to Davos.

"But that was never my reason, Your Grace."

"I am certain Devan thought that _is_ your reason."

"No. I have given him no reason to think that."

His words were met with Stannis' skeptical expression.

"Would Devan really think that?" _My son. My poor son._

"Yes he would. I know your son, Davos. He was my squire for years."

"I will have to explain things to him. I never meant to make him feel that way."

Stannis smiled. A smile that turned into a chuckle.

_Oh to see him laugh! I will gladly turn myself into a fool for that,_ Davos thought.

"It's strange, is it not? It's often my lord Hand, my Onion Knight, telling me the hard truths about how I treat my daughter, nagging me, scolding me."

"I would not say nag, Your Grace. I am not your fishwife."

Stannis did laugh at that, not a bitter laugh, as he often did, but an amused one.

"You are worse than that, Davos. But this time it's my turn, to nag you about how you're treating your son.

Davos smiled. "Yes, Your Grace.

"At least I get the chance to do it once, before I die."

That wiped the smile off Davos' face.

They had never spoken about Stannis dying in personal terms. It had been only about the realm, preparing Princess Shireen for the Throne, all the arrangements and responsibilities that will fall on Davos' shoulders.

Lists. He had been given many of them. All written by the King's own hand. Not a maester's hand. Davos had stared at them countless times, not only to memorize the content, but the handwriting. He had never received anything written by Stannis' own hand before.

There were things he desperately wanted to say, but Davos did not know where to begin. And he knew Stannis would not welcome it. _He is not fond of certain ... sentiments_ , Davos thought.

He suddenly realized that neither of them had spoken for a long while. Stannis was watching him, his expression indecipherable.

_He has something to say too_ , Davos realized. _And yet he's hesitating, like myself. One of us should speak first._

"Your Grace -"

"Lord Davos -"

They both stopped. "Please, Your Grace, go on."

"Do you ... do you ever wonder what Dale, Allard, Matthos and Maric would be doing now? If ... if they are still alive?"

_My sons. My boys. Why are you asking about them, my liege?_

He did not know how to answer the question. Of course he had wondered, he thought of them every night, before merciful sleep arrived. Dale's wife had married another captain of a ship, with four children of their own now. _Children that could have been our grandchildren_ , he had told Marya.

"Oh my love. Surely we cannot begrudge her rebuilding her life, trying to find happiness again." His wife had said.

How could he tell the King any of that? What would be the point? Now, of all time.

But silence conveyed something too, Davos realized, as he watched Stannis' expression turned more and more dismayed.

_What should I say? What should I tell him?_ Davos needed his wife. He needed his son. Even Devan would know what to say to the King at this moment, Davos was certain of that.

But there was no one else. No one he could turn to. There were only the two of them, here and now, in this room. The King and his Hand. Stannis Baratheon and his Onion Knight.

Lies and comforting words would not comfort Stannis Baratheon, Davos knew. He went for the truth. It was the only option.

"There were times, after ... my sons ... when I had doubts, when I was bitter, when all I wanted was to go home to my wife and remaining sons. At White Harbor, sitting in Lord Manderly's dungeon, when I thought death was coming for me, I made a promise. If I survive this, I will put my king on the Throne, and take my family for an adventure. Somewhere far away from the Seven Kingdoms."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you needed me still, even after you won the war and had the Throne. You told me you needed me, so I stayed. And now you're telling me you need me to be there for your daughter after -" Davos could not continue.

"After I die," Stannis continued for him.

Davos nodded, "And I will stay too, this time, as long as she needs me."

"I ask too much of you, always."

"No more than I am willing to give, Your Grace."

"Did you ever regret it, coming to Storm's End that day, with your onions and salted fish?"

"No, never," Davos answered truthfully. "I have been bitter, angry, disappointed, but I have never regretted that day."

"It was more than twenty years ago."

"Twenty five years ago," Davos replied.

"More than half my life. I have known you longer than I did not. Longer than I have been married."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Do you truly not regret it? Coming to Storm's End? Even with ... everything? Not only your sons, but everything else."

"No. And not only because you have raised me, and my family. Being by your side has been an honor, an experience I would never exchange with anything."

"We did have our moments."

"Yes we did, Your Grace."

"We didn't do so ill. I didn't do so ill. When you count the ledger. I was a just king."

"Yes, Your Grace. More than only a just king. A good one."

"It's deplorable, is it not? A dying man wishing to be reassured that his life had not been ... meaningless.

"It is only human, Your Grace. I was the same, at White Harbor."

"I never thought ... that I would be that way. Needing reassurance. And I have not, not with anyone else, not my wife, not my daughter. It seems unfair to them, after how ... inadequate I have been, as a father, as a husband. But perhaps I am too used to burdening you, Davos."

"I will gladly accept it, Your Grace. As long as you need me. I am your man, always."

That sentiment was too much for Stannis Baratheon. He coughed, and turned his face away from Davos.

_Still the same man in many ways after all_ , thought Davos, smiling.

"Well, your son needs you now, Lord Davos. Perhaps you should go and speak with him."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And tell him I wish to speak to him too."


	6. Duty

He did not dream of kissing Shireen that night. Devan’s dream was of his brothers. Chains. Green fire.

The day passed in a haze as he went about his normal duties. Waiting. When his father finally spoke to him that evening, he could not hide his relief. Even if by showing relief, he was all but confirming his father’s worst fears.

The King wanted to see him, Devan was told, after his father had spoken to him. He spotted Shireen coming out of the King’s room. They had not spoken since she came to see him the day before.

“Princess Shireen.”

“Ser Devan.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes, he wants to speak to you alone. I am to come later.”

His face must have betrayed the nervousness gnawing inside. “It will be fine,” she whispered, as they walked past each other.

Before Devan had a chance to knock, the door was opened by a squire. “His Grace commands you to enter, Ser Devan,” he said.

He walked into the room expecting to see the King in bed. Instead, he was sitting at the table, the remnants of the evening meal in front of him. Princess Shireen must have eaten with her father. The King pointed at the seat opposite him. Devan sat down immediately.

 _Like an interrogation_ , Devan thought.

“Your Grace.”

He did not address Devan, but turned to speak to his squire instead.

“Ser Devan was my squire during the war, Arthur.”

This boy looked about twelve of thirteen, slightly older than Devan had been during the war. Arthur smiled, and replied enthusiastically.

“Yes, Your Grace. We have heard all the stories. How Ser Devan refused to get on the ship until Your Grace was safely on board at Blackwater. How he would not get off the battlefield during the fight against the Others even after he was injured.”

 _We_? Devan wondered.

“Arthur means the Royal Squires,” the King replied, even though Devan had not asked the question aloud.

“Leave us,” the King told the squire. “I will call for you later.”

Arthur nodded, and closed the door softly. He seemed prone to chatter, this boy. And yet the King did not seem to mind, when Devan knew how he could not stand prattle and idle chatter.

“He has to stay by my side, in this room, day after day. It must be dull for a boy his age. I won’t begrudge him a little idle chatter, especially when he gets the chance to meet his hero for the first time.”

“His hero, Your Grace?”

“You, Ser Devan. Who else?”

Was this a jape? Devan could not tell.

“Did your father speak to you?” The King suddenly changed the subject.

“Yes he did, Your Grace.”

“Do you forgive him?”

“I … no, there is nothing to forgive, Your Grace.”

“Well, do you believe him then? That he did not mean to make you feel that you are not good enough for my daughter?”

“It was not because of my father’s words, Your Grace. If … if I felt that way, it was because of my own … insecurities.”

The King nodded, satisfied with the answer. Devan imagined his mind turning, ticking off the boxes, which subject to discuss. It surprised him however, that the King had chosen the subject of Devan and his father as the first issue to tackle.

“You cannot inherit your father’s title and land after he died. You can only stay Ser Devan. I do not want the Queen’s husband to have sworn bannermen of his own. Your brother Stannis will be Lord of Rainwood, he’s the next in line. Do you accept that?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I understand the reasons for it.”

“I thought at first a weak man will be better suited for the role, the husband of a ruling Queen. But I was wrong, it would take a very strong man. To be able to hold back, willing to be three steps behind, always.” 

Devan was used to the way the King delivered compliments, and he knew this was a compliment.

“Thank you, Your Grace. For trusting me.”

The King smiled. “Ahhh, so you know that was my way of praising you. You _have_ grown, you used to not understand that when you were my squire.”

“No, I did understand. I never said anything because I didn’t know if it will make you angry, or uncomfortable. But I always knew, Your Grace.”

The King looked  uncomfortable. He swiftly changed the subject, as was his wont in these situations.

“Your brothers dying at Blackwater, and you surviving, was not your fault. Bryen Farring dying during that march to Winterfell was not your fault either.”

“Your Grace?”

“Guilt … can be useful. Driving people to do their duty. To do better. But misplaced guilt is corrosive. Only feel guilty for the wrongs you actually committed. Otherwise you will drown in your sense of guilt, and end up committing more wrongs.”

Devan did not know how to reply. How could the King have known?

“Don’t look so surprised. I understand feeling guilty for the wrongs I did too, not just resenting other people for how they have wronged me. Even though I’m better at the latter.” He continued before Devan could speak.

“No, Your Grace, that is not what surprised me. Only, how did you know … about … my brothers, and Bryen Farring?”

“Because those are the things I would feel guilty about, were I in your place. But they are still misplaced guilt. If anyone is to be blamed for your brothers and Bryen Farring, it is the man who commanded them to war.”

“Your Grace-“

“And I know you well enough to know how that mind works. You were my squire for a good while, before and after the war. And you know me quite a bit as well. No lord is a hero to his squire, as they say. The squire sees all the flaws and the worst parts, even the ones hidden to others.”

“And he sees the best parts too, the things hidden from others,” Devan replied.

“Well, I’m sure there is less of that than the bad things. And other people won’t believe it even if you told them.”

“It would be breaking a trust to say anything to others, Your Grace. The good or the bad.”

“Of course. But you did tell my daughter certain things.” The King was looking at him shrewdly.

 _Do not flinch_ , Devan told himself. _Tell him what you have always wanted him to know._

The King was smiling. “I cannot blame you, my daughter can be very, very persuasive and insistent. And wily. You might not even realize you were telling her something she didn’t know until it was too late.”

Devan smiled too. “I have had that experience, Your Grace.”

He continued. “But it was not only because of that. I wanted her to know, about her father. How he would ask me about her. About our lessons together, if she was sad, or disturbed about anything. How he cared about her, but for some reason was not able to ask her those things. And perhaps .. perhaps I should have told him to ask her those questions himself. But I never had the courage.”

 _I have said too much_ , Devan thought. But he was relieved to finally told the King this.

“You were only a boy. It was not your responsibility to remind me of my duty to my own daughter,” the King replied.

He continued, after a pause. “You’re like your father in many ways. You harbor too many self doubts. But that is what makes your father a good man.”

Devan was thinking that the conversation did not go the way he thought it would. He had thought the King would speak to him about marrying Shireen. The fatherly things fathers of daughters would say. Devan remembered his eldest brother Dale, recounting the conversation he had with his wife’s father before the wedding.

“My daughter is in your care now, you are responsible for her, for her safety and happiness. If you do anything to hurt her, you will answer to me,” Dale’s father-in-law had warned him.

The King had said none of that. The conversation so far had been about Devan, for the most part.

“When did you know? That you love Shireen?”

 _Here it is_ , Devan thought. The fatherly warnings and reminders. And yet, the King did not sound as if he was testing Devan. He sounded merely curious. At least at this point.

 _How should I answer this?_ Devan wondered. _With the truth, of course_.

“I don’t know, the exact moment. It happened by degree.”

The King was looking at him, expecting him to continue.

“One day I realized I did not want to marry anyone except her.”

“Is that why you wanted to be in the Kingsguard? Because you have no desire to marry anyone else?”

“No, Your Grace, I have always wanted that. The chance to serve you again.”

“You’re serving me now as a gold cloak. The City Watch is just as important as the Kingsguard. More important, in truth. Protecting the people and the city, not just the king.

Devan was embarrassed. He knew the King was right, and yet -

“Of course. But … serving you … protecting my king personally, I-“

The King seemed to understand his predicament. “I understand. That’s fine. But when you realize you were in love with Shireen, didn’t that make you doubt your intention to be a Kingsguard?”

The King was relentless in his questioning. But Devan was used to that. He had watched Stannis Baratheon reduced fully grown knights to tears, and caused noble and powerful lords to shake in their boots with fear. Compared to that, the King was almost gentle this time, in his tone and his expression, as he was questioning Devan.

“No, Your Grace, it strengthened my resolve.”

Devan was suddenly horrified, wondering what the King might suspect.

“Not because I thought it will bring me into closer proximity with Princess Shireen when she is Queen. Only because I thought it will never be possible, the Princess and I.”

“Why? Why did you think it was not possible?”

“Because she will be Queen one day. And her match will be someone more … deserving.

“A more political match, you mean.”

Devan did not deny that.

“But there was also another reason. I was not sure if she felt the same way.”

“Then why didn’t you ask her?”

“Because I was afraid of the answer, Your Grace.”

“That she does not share your feelings?”

“No, that she might say that she feels the same way.”

The King looked confused. But he gave Devan time to collect himself, and did not ask any question. As the silence lengthened however, the King spoke first.

“Because if you had asked her, and she had said she felt the same way, it would hurt more, when she has to marry another man. You could no longer pretend that the feeling was not mutual.”

“Yes, Your Grace. And Princess Shireen has a duty to the realm. She cannot choose only  for love.”

“But she did, in the end. Choose you out of love. She was the one who asked you to marry her.”

“But Princess Shireen did not ask me to marry her only out of love. She understood the political calculation too, the way Your Grace laid it out to my father. She is your daughter, you have trained her well.”

“Then why did you accept the proposal? If you knew it was not only for love?”

“If I thought it was only for love, I would have said no. But I also know Princess Shireen would not have asked, if it was only for love. If she thought it would mean neglecting her duty to the realm. We are not … foolish, or selfish, Your Grace. And your daughter will never put herself above the good of the realm.”

Devan meant the words as a reassurance, but the King did not look reassured.

“And we must all do our duty,” the King’s voice was so low, Devan could barely hear him. “How far must we go to do our duty?”

 _Perhaps this is no longer about Shiren and me_ , Devan thought. This is Lord Renly, Edric Storm, men screaming as they burned, at Blackwater, as offering to the Lord of Light. His instinct warred between two paths.

_Do not tell me this, your regrets and fears. Tell your daughter. She would want to know, to understand. And to hear it from your own lips, not from others.  
_

But Devan also instinctively knew that the King would not. He would not want Shireen to know.

It was the illusion they tried to maintain, the two of them, father and daughter both. Shireen pretending to her father, if no longer to herself, that she didn’t know all the things he did to win the throne. And her father? Pretending that Shireen didn’t know? Or actually believing that she didn’t?

 _Where does my duty lie?_ Devan wondered. To Shireen, or to the King? Duty. That word again.

_I am in this room, with him now. My duty lies with him at this moment, to listen, to comfort if need be._

But it turned out the King was not talking about that at all.

“It used to be easy. I have a duty to the realm, and to my daughter. To fight for the throne. The throne that was mine by law, and will be my daughter’s after me. But what if it had been different?”

“Shireen would have understood you choosing duty to the realm. No, she would have wanted you to.”

“Only because that is how I raised her to think, to believe. Duty above all else.” He looked sadder than Devan had ever seen him.

The door opened, and he could hear footsteps. Shireen, he could tell, without turning around. He watched as the King struggled to change his expression.

“Well, look who has decided to grace us with her presence. I suppose she doesn’t trust me to spend even a little time with you, Devan. Don’t worry, I have not eaten him yet. Or reduce him to tears.”

“No, but you might bore him to sleep.” Shireen seemed to have noticed her father’s earlier expression, his effort to change it was not entirely successful. She gave a quick glance at Devan, but looked away before he could respond.

She took the seat next to her father, but he pointed her to the one next to Devan instead.

“Looks like we’re both being interrogated,” Shireen said, as she sat next to Devan.

“I will meet with the members of the Small Council, and announce the betrothal. Shireen and Lord Davos will not attend the meeting. If they have any concerns, it will be easier for them to air it if the two of you are not there. Once the council is informed, the betrothal will be announced at Court. Your mother will sit with you in Court that day. Devan should be there as well. Not in gold cloak, I should think. Just the regular knight’s attire. You will have to give up your post at the City Watch before the wedding. And we will send out knights to read the announcement to the small folks.”

 _He has thought of everything_ , Devan thought. Every little detail. As usual.

“Now, before all the wheels start turning, I have to know. Are you both sure? Any reservations? Once I informed the Small Council, there is no turning back, no changing of mind.”

Shireen and Devan looked at each other. “Yes, we are sure,” they said, together.

“Then that’s settled.”

There was an awkward silent after that. Devan was not sure if that was a dismissal.

_Does he want us to leave now?_

But the King was still looking at them, one after the other.

_Is he expecting us to say something else?_

He stole a glance at Shireen. She did not seem confused, however. She was looking expectantly at her father, as if she wanted him to say something else.

The King cleared his throat a few times. Shireen was still looking at him. Devan admired her tenacity. If this was a battle of will, Stannis Baratheon seemed to be losing to his daughter.

He finally spoke.

“I’m the last person in the Seven Kingdoms who should be talking about what makes a good marriage. You should talk to Devan’s parents for that. But remember this, once you are married, you have made a vow. Stay true to that. Not just to the letter of the vow, but also to the spirit.”

He paused. “Love is a good start. But it’s a long journey, and a good start only goes so far.”

Another pause. “And don’t forget, you need to produce an heir for the throne. And a few more children, just to be safe. That is your duty too. I’m sure Devan’s parents could give valuable advice on that front as well.”

Devan blushed. Shireen however looked amused.

“Yes father, that is quite enough fatherly advice for now,” she was smiling as she said this.

The King seemed exhausted, his eyes half-shut.

“We should leave. And you should get some sleep,” Shireen said. 

“No,” he took hold of Shireen’s hand. “Stay. There’s something I -“

He turned to look at Devan. “I need to speak to my daughter alone now, Devan.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He stood up to leave, glancing back at the door to see Shireen helping her father back to his bed.

********************************************************************************************

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For talking about the betrothal, the wedding, the marriage, with both of us. Not just with Devan.”

Her father smiled. “I know you would never forgive me if I did that. You will say that I’m treating you like a property, to be transferred to your husband.”

“Yes, I’m grateful for that part too, of course. But you spent a long time with Devan before I came in. If you were not talking about the wedding, then you must be talking about other things, about him, about you and him. He needed that, he deserved that.”

“He is something else to me too, other than the man my daughter loves and the man who loves my daughter.”

“I know. That’s why I’m glad you had a chance to speak to him alone. To give him a chance to -” her voice broke. She looked away.

“To say goodbye?” Her father continued her sentence. “Look at me, Shireen.” She wouldn’t. Tears were streaming down her face, and she did not want him to see it. She had not wept in front of him before, she knew how that made him uncomfortable.

“Look at me.”

It was a command this time, not a request. She turned to face her father. All of a sudden, her head was buried on his chest, his hands cradling her head. She did not know whether she had made the move, or her father had. Or they had both moved at the same time, meeting in the middle. It didn’t matter. She cried and cried.

He did not tell her that it was going to be fine. Instead he said, “You will survive this. You are strong, you are our daughter.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I need to tell you certain things. About the war. About how the throne became ours.”

“You don’t have to. It’s all in the past, what does it matter now?”

“No, I have to. Because that’s where your inheritance came from. And you must know it, so you will do  better for the realm. To pay for the sins that came before. It’s unfair, yes, paying for the sins of your father, but that is how it is. I have been lying to myself. I told myself I cannot tell you because it will be a burden to you. But that is not the real reason.  I was afraid. Afraid that you will despise me.”

“I could never despise you.” She took his hand and grasped it.

He looked her unwaveringly, as he began speaking. Her grasp never loosened, and they never broke eye contact. She said nothing, never interrupted him, and asked no questions. He did not ask her anything after he was finished. Do you despise me? Do you forgive me? He did not ask her any of that.

 _That is not what father wants_ , she realized. _Not forgiveness or reassurances. And it is not my place to forgive anyway. He only needed me to know._

“I knew all of that, father. I have always known. Maybe not the full detail, but the basic truths. But thank you. For telling me. For trusting me.”

She laid down her head on the bed, next to their hands, still clasped together, and whispered softly. “And it never made me stop loving you. I will be a good Queen, fair, just, and kind. To pay for all the blood. I promise you.”

“I know you will be a good Queen, even without this knwledge. But keep it in mind, for difficult times. We owe a debt of blood, we Baratheons, and we must pay it by being a good steward of the realm.

“Yes, father.”

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way. That I will not leave you with this burden.”

“It is not a burden. It is my duty. To the realm. To my father. And to myself.”

He smiled hearing that last part.


	7. Your Hand in Mine

Words spoken aloud had power and resonance beyond just their meaning, Shireen thought, as she watched her father, asleep finally. _At peace, finally?_ No, she knew that was not true, no matter how much she wanted to believe it. No matter how much she needed to believe it.

 _Never lie to yourself_ , Shireen’s father had told her. _No matter how much the truth hurts you._ A lesson he had learned from his mother, but had not always practiced himself. _Self-deception was my downfall, don’t let it be yours,_ he had insisted to Shireen. _  
_

Devan was waiting outside the room when Shireen finally came out. She had washed her face and tidied up carefully to erase any sign that she had been crying, but Devan still knew something was wrong. He greeted her with an alarmed expression, quickly moving closer to her side. She shook her head, very slightly, a gesture meant for Devan’s eyes alone. _No, not here, not in front of the guards and squires and lady’s maid._

“Ser Devan, will you meet me in my study? I have some instructions for you to relay from His Grace to the Commander of the City Watch.”

That was not a lie, her father wanted Lord Massey to instruct his men to be more vigilant for troublemakers and spies. With his illness, Shireen ascending to the throne, and rumors about her wedding, the time was ripe for unscrupulousness elements to spread chaos and uncertainty.

But of course she could have relayed the instruction to Lord Massey directly, instead of through his underling, she admitted to herself.

She walked in front, followed by her lady’s maid. Devan followed a few steps behind. She wanted to talk to him, bursting with all the things she wanted to share. But she knew it was not the proper thing to do.

It had not been this way, when they were children. Yes, Dragonstone was a grim place for a child to grow up, but she had not appreciated the freedom she had had as a child. To roam the castle as she pleased, with any companion she wanted. Patchface, her cousin Edric, even Devan, her father’s squire. She did not appreciate all that until she got to King’s Landing, and suddenly everything was about what was proper and not proper for a king’s daughter, for a princess.

Her mother, who had never minded that Shireen had gone everywhere with a fool at Dragonstone, - “at least she is not so lonely”, Shireen had heard her mother saying to people who questioned that decision - suddenly minded once they got to King’s Landing, and banished Patchface from her side. Her mother, who despite not having any love for Lord Davos and the Seaworths in general, had never minded that Shireen and Devan took their lessons together, played together, spent time together at Dragonstone. But she minded once they were installed at King’s Landing. “He’s your father’s squire, you’re a princess, it’s not proper for you to be friends with him,” she had said.

Shireen had not understood it at first, had resented her mother for that. She still believed to this day that her mother was wrong, but over the years, she had learned to understand her mother more. Her fears and insecurities. Margaery Tyrell had been the queen before Selyse Florent, married to two child-kings. The long-standing rivalry between House Tyrell and House Florent played a part. As did the fact that her father’s grasp on the Iron Throne was very fragile in the beginning. The Pretender, some had called him. Shireen’s mother had wanted to do everything the _right_ way, the _proper_ way. To show that her husband belonged on that throne, and she belonged on the chair next to him.

Listening to Devan’s footsteps behind her, Shireen thought of the two of them exploring Castle Black together. She had missed him when she and her mother was left at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, while Devan rode to Castle Black with her father. That had been a strange time, things suddenly happening that no one would explain to her. Edric leaving so suddenly, without any word. And no one willing to tell her where he had gone.

And later, sailing to the Wall, with her mother telling her that they might never return to Dragonstone, so she should take the things she valued most with her. Her mother seemed distracted and worried, Shireen didn’t want to add to her troubles by asking too many questions.

And her father? She had not dared asked him anything since he came back from Blackwater, broken and defeated. His obvious torment, how fragile he suddenly seemed, terrified her. Shireen was convinced that her father was going to die. She had not known that they were going to the Wall so her father and his men could fight the wildlings. She had thought that they had to leave their home because her father had lost the war.

Until the day they arrived at Eastwatch, and she hid behind Devan as her father met with the Black Brothers, discussing strategy and the best route to get to Castle Black. Shireen had told Patchface not to follow her, his bells would surely alert her father to her presence. He understood her this time, and actually followed her instruction, despite never listening to her when she told him to stop singing his scary songs.

If no one would tell her anything, she would have to find out for herself. As the Black Brothers started talking about how many wildlings there were, how Lord Commander Mormont was slain, Shireen became more and more agitated. At ten, she did not understand battles and warfare, but she understood the basic facts of numbers.

The wildlings had significantly more men, her father and his men would be crushed again, just like Blackwater. And this time, her father was leading the battle, not coming from the rear as he did at Blackwater. He will die, she was convinced of that. Not even the Red Woman and her god that Shireen’s mother completely believed in could save him this time. She yelled No!, but her voice was too timid and small to be heard over all the voices of the men.

Devan heard her though. He told her later that he dared not turn around to stop her from saying anything more, because her father was looking at him. So he did something he had never done before, he took her hand. A quick squeeze, and she understood the message. _Don’t say anything, you’re not even supposed to be here._ She knew Devan would be in trouble if her father found out that he had brought her there, after she had pleaded, cajoled, and finally commanded him. But he did not let go of her hand after the squeeze, had continued holding it the whole time.

He had apologized later for his “impertinence”, as he put it. She had to ask him what the word meant. He had never held her hand before, or touch her anywhere. She, Devan and Edric had taken their lessons together, played together at Aegon’s Garden countless times, but Devan was always mindful of his position as the king’s squire, and theirs and the king’s daughter and the king’s nephew. Even if she and Edric were fairly oblivious to it.

“The Lord of Light will keep His Grace safe,” Devan had said, after she told him of her fears and worries about her father. She did not share his devotion and faith in that god, even as a child.

“The way he kept your brothers safe?” Shireen immediately knew that was the wrong thing to say to Devan. His usually clear brown eyes darkened.

“My brothers were not the Lord’s chosen.”

“Being the Lord’s chosen didn’t win Father the battle at Blackwater.”

“I will keep him safe,” Devan said. “I will be by his side, no matter what.”

And he had done so at Blackwater, Shireen knew. He had refused to get on the ship until her father was safely on it, even after the battle was lost. It could have been five sons Lord Davos and his wife lost that day.

“Do you promise?” Shireen had asked him, with all the solemnity and self-seriousness only a child was capable of.

“Yes, I promise,” Devan had answered.

Shireen knew now how unfair it was of her, extracting that promise from him. He was only a child, how could she have expected him to keep that promise?

_I was a child too, lost in fear and confusion._

When she and her mother finally arrived at Castle Black, she was surprised to find Devan there. Not marching south with her father. She had known that her father had left Castle Black for another battle. Had consoled herself with the belief that Devan was with him. Such a child, she thought now. She had thought Devan silly for putting his faith in some god to keep them all safe, and yet she had put her faith on another child to keep her father safe.

_But we were children, we were allowed to be silly and foolish._

_No_ , she thought, _not us. Not me_. _There was always too much at stake._

His expression when he greeted her at Castle Black was a mixture of shame and regret. “I couldn’t keep my promise,” he told her later when they were alone. “His Grace bid me to stay and serve Lady Melisandre. He took Bryen with him. I don’t know if I have done something wrong, if His Grace is displeased with me. Or if my father has done something wrong. I’m sorry.”

She had heard the talk too, that it was Devan’s father who was responsible for Cousin Edric suddenly leaving. Leaving without her father’s knowledge, and permission. But why?

She had taken Devan’s hand that time. “I was wrong to make you promise. I’m sorry.”

She was so intent on remembering the past, she had not realized they had reached their destination. She and Devan went into her study and she closed the door.

“Did something happen?” He asked, as soon as the door was shut.

“No, don’t worry, my father didn’t change his mind. He told me things, things I never dared ask him.”

“But that’s not why you were crying.”

Of course he would know, would have seen the truth on her face. “I think reality was just sinking in. About father. And … afterwards,” she replied.

“And how much your life would change. Afterwards,” he said softly.

“Our lives,” she said.

“Yes. Ours. But the greater burden will always be yours.”

That reminded her of her duty. She relayed to Devan the instructions from her father to Lord Massey, the Commander of the City Watch. Her father had made that appointment somewhat begrudgingly. Lord Massey, or Ser Justin as he was then, had been instrumental in Stannis Baratheon’s victory, securing the support of the Iron Bank of Braavos and bringing back the company of sellswords to replenish his depleted army. Lord Massey’s general good cheer, and the smile that rarely left his lips seemed to offend Shireen’s father, however.

But his loyalty to King Stannis was undeniable. When he brought back the sellswords to Westeros, he had already heard the fake news of the king’s death. Yet instead of joining forces with another contender for the throne, he came back with the intention of fighting for the throne for Shireen, as he had promised her father. “He is right for the position,” Lord Davos had told her father. “You are well aware of this, the way you were aware he was the right person to send to Braavos to negotiate with the Iron Bank.”

“Lord Massey congratulated me on our betrothal yesterday,” Devan said. “The news must be out somehow. Before His Grace could make the official announcement. Will that cause any trouble?”

It could, she thought. From the other suitors she had met, for one, who all believed they were in contention to be her husband. She was convinced they all knew who else were on the list; more than one of them had tried to badmouth the others. Or tried the more subtle tactic of praising the others and comparing themselves unfavorably. Hoping that she would take pity on them, perhaps. They must know that Devan’s name was never on that list.

But she did not want to worry about that tonight. “Tomorrow. We will worry about that tomorrow,” she said.

“What about tonight?” He asked.

“We celebrate. We haven’t done that. And talk. We haven’t really done that either, not since …”

“Not since you proposed.”

“And why is that?”

“Why we have not talked?

“Why did I have to propose? You could have spoken out yourself, instead of merely hinting around.”

He looked uncertain, not sure if she was merely jesting or being serious.

“Because you never gave me the chance. You were too fast. I was just about to speak, when you spoke first,” he finally said.

It was her turn to look uncertain, but only for a few seconds, before they both burst into a fit of laughter. He pointed to the door, reminding her of her lady’s maid and the guard waiting outside. She raised her eyebrows to say, _you’re making more noise than I am.  
_

She moved closer to him and put her hand on his mouth to muffle the sound. He hesitated slightly, before reciprocating the gesture. It was like old times, when they were children, roaming around Castle Black and then Nightfort, the adults too distracted and too busy to notice the two kids running around. Shireen and Devan had known the gravity of the situation, all the dead from the previous battles, and the dead from the battles to come. But they were still children, who found certain things amusing. Or in her case, perhaps she had found certain things amusing to remind herself that she was still a child. Devan, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to stop being a child.

Either way, there _had_ been laughter. And almost laughter. They had always remembered to stop each other from laughing. With a look. Their own secret signal. Yet at times when it was just the two of them, they could not help themselves, and laughed anyway. And felt guilty afterwards. As if their laughter would be repaid in deaths and blood. As if laughing could make her father lose the war.

It was Shireen’s idea, their hands on each other’s mouth. When they felt tempted to laugh. Devan was uncomfortable with the idea. “Why can’t we each cover our own mouth?” He had asked.

“Because we won’t do it hard enough,” she had replied. But Devan’s hand was always gentle on her mouth, and she knew she would have done a better job muffling the sound of her laughter with her own hand. Yet she had insisted they continued doing it that way.

Adults now, standing close in her study, no longer children, they stopped laughing. But the hands stayed where they were. His hand moved from her mouth to her left cheek. His fingers traced the mottled dead skin slowly. She did not feel anything there, but she was transfixed by the back and forth motion of his hand.

His fingers used her lips as a bridge, caressing it softly to move to her other cheek. This time, she definitely felt something. His fingers seemed to take an eternity moving up and down her cheek. She looked at him, really looked at him, and suddenly his face was as red as a lobster. She could feel her own face reddening too. She could not understand it, neither of them had blushed the first and only time they had kissed. That had felt … normal. Not dizzying and out of control, the way she was feeling now.

 _Oh._ The realization came. This was something else. Or at least a precursor to something else. The thought thrilled her. Fascinated her. But she was her father’s daughter, and he was his father’s son, and caution prevailed. _Not yet._ It was as if their minds shouted those words as one, and they pulled away from each other in sync. He removed his hand from her cheek, and took her hand that was still covering his mouth.

This is safer, she thought, much safer. But before long, her fingers were slowly tracing the palm of his hand, roaming through its territory. He laughed and said, “This is not really helping.”

She smiled. “What? We’re just holding hands.”

She stopped smiling however when her fingers reached the scar on his palm. Her hand ceased to move, lingering at that spot. From the fire. That was how he got the scar, she recalled. They were talking about dragons. At Nightfort. Recounting the stories they had heard about the Targaryen queen and her dragons. Devan was shivering, he was always cold at the Wall and up north. But Shireen didn’t really feel the cold.

“That’s because you have the blood of the dragon too, inside you,” he had joked.

She had never thought of it that way. She knew that her great-grandmother was a Targaryen princess, but that seemed so far away and so long ago.

“Only a little,” she said. One quarter? No, she revised her calculation. “Father is one quarter Targaryen, so I am only one-eighth. And anyway you’re wrong, it’s heat that the Targaryens can resist, not cold.”

“That’s only a story,” he replied, with as close a tone as sneering that ever came from Devan Seaworth. “There are many stories, about magic, about powerful gods, but in the end _people_ are the only ones who fight. And die.”

They were sitting in front of the fireplace in an empty and desolate room at Nightfort. Devan had started a fire, and he was gazing intently at the flame. He was her father’s squire once more, now that her father was back from his victory against the Boltons. Bryen Farring his other squire had died during that march to Winterfell. Shireen had caught a glimpse of something hard and unyielding in Devan’s face now and then. He was changing, even at ten she could sense that. Her seventeen-year-old self would have called it the loss of innocence. Strange, since Devan had been to battles and had seen men die before. But he had also put his faith in a higher power, and in her father being the chosen savior of that higher power. And he was losing that faith.

“Father came back,” she blurted out. “He won when everyone thought he would lose, when everyone thought he was dead. Your father came back too. We thought he was dead, and he wasn’t."

“But that wasn’t magic, or any god. That was only chaos, confusion and misunderstanding, and people spreading untruths for their own purposes. The fog of war, His Grace called it. And His Grace won and survived through his own effort. He is not the lord’s chosen, or Azor Ahai reborn. He is only a man.” Devan had said that last sentence not with disappointment, but with awe.

Shireen did not understand it at the time. Why was it good that her father was only a man? How could he defeat the Others, who could not be killed with regular swords, if he was only a man? How could he defeat the Targaryen queen with her dragons, if he was only a man?

That was when she moved her hand closer to the flame. To see if the story was true. If she could resist the heat with her one-eighth Targaryen blood, maybe her father could too. It amazed her later, the naivety of her ten-year-old self. Devan noticed immediately, and grabbed her hand and pulled it away from the flame. Hard.

“Don’t! They’re only silly stories, they’re not true!” He had shouted. The first and only time he had ever shouted at her. Or at anyone, as far as she knew.

“Let go. You’re hurting my hand,” she told him.

He let go immediately and apologized, and that was when she saw the flame had touched his palm. It was red, the skin blistering. “Your hand! I’ll get Maester Pylos,” she said, getting up from where she was sitting on the floor.

“No! He’s with His Grace in the war council. Later,” he said.

“Then I’ll call someone else,” she insisted. That was when he started crying.

She didn’t know at first that was what he was doing. Devan had not made a sound, and she could not see the tears because he was looking at the floor and shielding his face with his hands. She only saw his shoulders moving up and down. She thought at first that he was crying because of the hand, because of the pain. Yet somehow even as a child, she had suspected that it was not really about that.

It was about loss. The loss of loved ones and the people he knew. The loss of faith in a god. The loss of innocence and romantic notions about battles and fighting and glory and war. His twelve-year-old self could not have articulated that, and her ten-year-old self would not have understood it that clearly. But she understood it later, and saw how all those losses had turned him into the man that he was today.

She sat down again and held him as he cried silently. And that was how her father had found them, sitting in front of the fireplace in an empty, desolate room at Nightfort, her arms cradling Devan’s head. Her father had stood at the door, looking uncertain. She was torn between two emotions, wanting her father to come and console Devan, and knowing that Devan would never get over the mortification and embarrassment, being found like that by her father. In the end, her father simply nodded and left.

He had mentioned the incident only once, a few days later, watching Devan with his bandaged hand. “You’re a good friend,” he had said to Shireen.

“He’s a good friend to me,” she had replied. Devan still did not know to this day that her father had seen them that day.

No more secrets. There had been too many of them. No more, she resolved. Not even innocent ones meant to protect the feelings of others. She tightened her grasp on Devan’s hand, and told him about the king who was only a man, silently watching his daughter cradling a crying boy who had lost faith in everything, except his king.


	8. Regrets

His hand was holding on to another. All tiny fingers and soft palm. _Hold on tight, don’t let go,_ he told the other person. Shireen? No, this was not her hand. Negligent father that he was, cold and distant parent that he had been, he still knew the feel of his daughter’s hand. He looked down and to the side, and it was Renly. Renly’s hand he was holding. Little Renly, walking unsteadily on the beach, his right hand holding on to Stannis, his left to Robert.

The beach at Storm’s End. _What are we doing here?_

 _Saying goodbye. To Mother and Father._ He saw them through the mist, standing side by side on the ship, waving, their faces blurred and hazy. _Are they smiling? Frowning? Looking worried?_ He could not see. Closed his eyes and opened them again, to see if the mist would clear, and he still could not see their faces. Frustration mounting, he released the tiny hand he was holding to rub his eyes. _Let me see them_ , he pleaded, to what or to whom he was not certain. He remembered, too late, his own words to Renly. _Don’t let go._ Brought down his hand, reaching for those tiny fingers again. But found nothing, merely empty spaces. He looked to the side, and saw that he was alone.

Renly and Robert were running to the ship. He ran too, his feet moving on their own accord before his mind could decide what to do. But Robert and Renly were so much faster than him, and they had a head start. By the time he was close enough to the ship, somehow Robert and Renly had made it up the ship, standing beside Mother and Father.

But not the Robert and Renly as they were the day their parents left for that final and fatal trip. It was Robert the last time Stannis saw him, riding for Winterfell. It was Renly the last time Stannis saw him, at the parley, eating a peach. Mother and Father looked as young and youthful as ever, forever frozen the way their sons last saw them. He shouted, but no sound came out. The ship was leaving. Leaving without him. He ran out of sand to run on, his feet were touching water now. _Wait_ , the word finally came out. _Wait for me._

But it was too late, the mist cleared, and the ship was gone. Vanished, like it was never there to begin with. Only the sea, as far as the eyes can see. He knelt down in the water, looking at his hands. Bloody. They were bloody. He knew whose blood it was.

_That’s why they did not wait for me. Mother, Father, Robert and Renly. I sulked at Dragonstone while the Lannisters plotted to murder Robert. And Renly. Renly …_

He could not continue the thought. He was sliding further and further away to sea. He saw the storm coming, and closed his eyes. Heard the thunderous sound as it moved closer and closer. T _he storm that destroyed Windproud_ , he thought. _The sea where Mother and Father drowned_. This was as it should be, he finally realized. He did not belong on that ship with them. This was his place. This was where he belonged. He opened his eyes to face the storm, and waited.

A hand grabbed his arm, hard and insistent. And a voice was calling for him.

He thought his eyes were already wide open, but suddenly realized they were not. Opened them to see his cousin. Andrew Estermont. Lord Andrew Estermont, Master of Law, also the one who smuggled Edric Storm to the Free Cities. He had made the same journey Stannis’ parents had, but for another reason. Edric. Edric was another reason they did not wait for him. Did not want him on that ship with them.

Andrew’s hand was on his arm, squeezing it. He removed it immediately when he noticed Stannis staring. He did not think Cousin Andrew had ever touched him before. Andrew had been at the Wall when Stannis came back from defeating the Boltons. He remembered Andrew kneeling before him, saying, “You can kill me later if I survive the war, but let me fight for you against this enemy.” Stannis had said nothing. Andrew had fought for him, and survived the war.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. You were having a bad dream-”

“It was not a dream,” Stannis interrupted. Was it morning? It still looked dark outside, it could not be time yet for the small council meeting he had called in his chamber. But his eyes were prone to playing tricks on him lately. Pylos was reading the story of the Young Dragon who conquered Dorne to him one day, and his features suddenly looked like Cressen, reading to Stannis when he was ill, when he was a boy.

“Daeron is an engaging writer,” Cressen had said, “but somewhat prone to exaggeration.”

“To make himself look more heroic?” Stannis had asked.

“Well now, we should not immediately assume the worst about people,” the old maester had chided him gently. “Perhaps he misremembered certain things. The book was written after the war after all.”

“I don’t think he simply misremembered, Maester Cressen,” Stannis had said.

“Your Grace?” And yet the voice replying to him, sounding uncertain, was not Cressen’s. It was the voice of a man years younger. How could it be, when the man looked so like the old maester? He closed his eyes, opened them again, and saw that it was Pylos. Only Pylos.

He did it this time too, closing and opening his eyes, to see if it was actually light outside. No, still dark. What was Andrew doing here?

“How long have you been waiting? Is it something important? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“It is important, Your Grace.” Andrew did not answer the other questions. “It’s about the small council meeting tomorrow. Your Grace is planning to attend to announce the betrothal of Princess Shireen and Ser Devan Seaworth.”

“How did you know? I have not announced the purpose of the meeting.” He had not confided even in Cousin Andrew. But then he had not confided in Davos either, had led Davos to believe in the original plan with the list of suitors. Because he wanted things between Shireen and Devan to happen by their own accord. And it did, and now it was time to announce it. But if Andrew knew, did everyone else on the council know as well?

“Yes,” Andrew answered the question Stannis had not yet vocalized. “They all know the purpose of tomorrow’s council meeting. And they are not pleased. The council should have been consulted, is the complaint. And since the council had signed off on the original list of suitors, now they feel like they were made part of a trick, to dupe the suitors. Especially the Wardens of the East, West, South and North. Since they were consulted on the names of possible suitors from minor Houses in their regions. They were not happy that Your Grace had explicitly excluded anyone from their Houses in the first place, and anyone from the other major Houses, but they had consented and submitted the list of suitors from the minor Houses. But now it turns out someone from a major House will be Princess Shireen’s husband after all. They are saying it’s a trick, that it was your plan after all, to exclude all the major Houses except House Seaworth.”

Stannis was incredulous. “House Seaworth has been in existence only for twenty odd years. Hardly a major House.”

“But Lord Davos is Hand of the King, with all the power and influence the position brings. Forgive me, Your Grace, I am only relaying what has been said by the other council members.”

Stannis almost regretted expanding the small council. In addition to the regular seven, he had included the Wardens in the council. They did not attend all council meetings, since they did not reside in King’s Landing, but they were included in the deliberations, and they were required to report regularly to the council about the region under their responsibility. He had seen that as a way of checking the power and influence of the Wardens. They were not free to do as they wished, they were required to answer to the council and the king regularly, and not only when something has gone wrong, as was the case in the past.

But having them in the council also worked the other way around, they now had a say in the decision making affecting the whole realm. He should have anticipated that. In trying to reduce their power, he had also inadvertently increased it in other ways.

_What kind of kingdom is Shireen inheriting? What kind of legacy am I bequeathing her?_

“The list is the problem,” Andrew Estermont continued. “Princess Shireen has met with all the names on the list, the understanding was one of them would be chosen. Ser Devan’s name was never on that list.”

“And of course everyone knows this?”

“It was a list of suitors for the future queen of the realm, Your Grace. Of course it would be of the utmost interest. The suitors themselves, and their families, would have worked very hard to find out who else are on the list. To position themselves advantageously, for one. Know your enemy, Your Grace often said so yourself.”

“Enemy!” Stannis scoffed.

“Competition then. They would have wanted to find out about the other competitors.”

“You make it sound as if my daughter is a prize to be given away.”

Andrew Estermont looked chastised. “Forgive me, Your Grace. That was not my intention at all. I am only relaying the opinion of the other council members. To not be chosen over another name on that list would have been a disappointment, but the suitors would have to accept it. But to be passed over for someone who was never in competition, they will take that as an insult. And a few of those suitors are from abroad, from other kingdoms we need to maintain good relations with.”

Objections after objections. He was tired, so very tired. _Leave_ , he wanted to say. _Leave me to all my worthless and futile regret and remorse._ But if he did not see this through, if he did not put this right, it would be another thing to regret, another sin to reproach himself with.

“What do you suggest, then?” He asked.

“Something to show good faith. A tourney, perhaps. Ser Devan is a good fighter, he can win.”

“I will not have my daughter’s future be dictated by who is a better fighter! And will they not object to his name being on the list for the tourney, when he was not on the list before?”

“As long as he is competing just like the rest of the suitors, I think we can smooth over that objection.”

“My answer is still no.”

Andrew Estermont hesitated, before replying. “I know Your Grace has always thought tourneys frivolous, making games out of the serious business of fighting and dying. But in this case, perhaps you will have to make an exception, Your Grace. For the sake of keeping the peace. Otherwise, how will we explain it to the suitors? To the people of the kingdom?”

“Tell them their princess and future queen has chosen the man she will marry, with her own judgment on what will be best for the realm.”

“And the man she chooses just happens to be the Hand’s son? Lord Seaworth’s son.”

“What are you implying?”

“This will be talked about, Your Grace. They will say that Your Grace has always had a soft spot for the Seaworths, from that first moment of elevating Davos Shorthand, who was a notorious smuggler, to a knight. They will question whether it is truly the princess’ choice, or if it is yours, as a way of further elevating House Seaworth.”

“I punished him for the smuggling!”

“Some would say the punishment was too light. Your Grace, it is not my own opinion, but you know as well as I do that it _will_ be debated and questioned.”

Davos had told him the same thing once, that the people at White Harbor had scoffed that Stannis taking his finger joints was too light a punishment. That had never occurred to Stannis, it was a just punishment in his eyes.

He thought about the unspoken words that haunted the room during his conversation with Davos, Rebellion. War. Only seven years of peace since the last war. What if there was another rebellion? Another war?

But so what? Appeasing the lords would not ensure peace either. And if there _was_ going to be a war, he would rather Shireen have the Seaworths on her side.

 _She will have them by her side either way, even if she is married to someone else_ , a voice countered in his head. _But she will not have Devan_ , he insisted. Not in the ways that really mattered.

 _What is done is done,_ he thought. If he gave way now, it would only make the throne look weak and Shireen weaker. He thought of Davos. Davos had tried to warn him, but he had managed to convince Davos about the rightness of the match. It had not been hard.

 _Only because he wants to be convinced,_ Stannis realized. For his son’s sake. For Shireen’s sake, who Davos also loved.

_And for my sake. We’re both too soft now. Peace, and relative safety, have made us this way._

Could Davos be as ruthless with Shireen as he had been with Stannis? The hard truths, always. In truth, Stannis had his doubts about that. When you have watched someone grow from babe to a woman, when you have held her in your arms while she cried, when you have been more a father to her than her own father had been, how could sentiments not be at play? How could feelings be kept at bay? Davos was only human, certainly more human that Stannis himself had ever been.

 _Perhaps that’s the solution_ , he thought. Shireen should have a different Hand. Not immediately when she ascended to the throne, but soon after. If that was the bone of contention for the other lords, the ascendancy of House Seaworth with the father as the queen’s Hand and the son as the queen’s husband, perhaps that would be enough satisfy them and to silence their objections.

And the man sitting in front of him now was the one most suited to be the next Hand, Stannis and Davos had agreed a long time ago.

How would Davos take it? Stannis wondered. He would accept it with good graces, of course, and understand the reasons. But would he see it as a loss of faith and trust on Stannis’ part? _I can’t worry about that now,_ he thought.

 _Maybe now Davos can take his boys and travel the world, like he always wanted to,_ he mused. No, Steffon and Stannis were boys no longer, they were both squires, they would be knighted soon.

_Time passes, children grow, people die. And too many things become too late too soon._

_Davos and his wife could still go_ , he thought. Travel the world, cities after cities, the dream Davos had of seeing the wonders of the world. Not dragons, though. They had seen enough dragons to last a lifetime.

Andrew was waiting patiently for him to speak. Stannis told him about the plan. To his surprise, Andrew balked. “I am not ready, Your Grace. At least not that early in Princess Shireen’s rule. We still need Lord Davos. And setting Lord Davos aside will not be enough for them. Because that is not really the core of their objection, even if they presented it that way. In their eyes, Lord Davos will not be the Hand forever. He can and will be replaced someday. But Ser Devan Seaworth as the queen’s husband, his son or daughter as the future king or queen, that is the outcome they do not want. That is the true ascendance of House Seaworth they fear.

“The children will not be Seaworths, they will be Baratheons, that is the law.”

“Baratheon in name, yes, but still half-Seaworth in blood.”

“I don’t see why they cannot accept him as a good compromise candidate. He is not from any of the major Houses.”

“But Your Grace, they _do_ see House Seaworth as a major and influential House. And feel threatened by it. Do not be fooled by the way they mock Lord Davos or speak of his low birth.”

“Shireen must marry Devan. I do not trust anyone else not to try to undermine her position and gain power and influence for his own family.”

“I agree. But you must arrange it in such a way that will satisfy them that Ser Devan is the most worthy suitor. Or perhaps not satisfy them, I doubt there is anything that will, but in a way that will make any complaint from them sound unreasonable later.”

Stannis was losing his patience. “I said I will not hold a tourney. I will not leave my daughter’s future on the whims of a few minutes on the jousting field.”

“It doesn’t have to be a tourney solely about fighting. It can encompass other things as well. Things that will test the mettle of the suitors, and the suitability to be the queen’s husband. Fighting will still have to be a part of it, of course, I don’t think they will agree to the rest if you do not include that.”

“The rest, such as what?”

“Knowledge of history, for one. A queen’s husband will need to know that. Knowledge of the different regions and the people of the Seven Kingdoms. Knowledge of the world beyond our borders. Knowledge of Princess Shireen, her likes and dislikes, her way of thinking.”

“If we include the last one,” Stannis mused, “they will scream unfair competition right away. Devan will have a definite advantage in that, he has known my daughter the longest.”

“I’m sure we can find a way to cloak it, somehow.”

“No, we cannot do that. That would be unfair, making a mockery of the competition. Arranging it to make sure Devan will win.”

“If they do not know -”

“ _We_ will know. And Devan will know too, he’s no fool.”

“But Your Grace, the purpose of this is only to satisfy the others lords and suitors. For the sake of appearance. You want Ser Devan to win, don’t you?”

“Of course. More than anything. But not that way. Not as a mummer’s farce. I want him to win cleanly.”

Andrew Estermont was giving him a meaningful look.

“Speak up, cousin, I know you have something to say.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you did not always go with the cleaner way during the war,” Andrew said, bracing himself for Stannis’ anger.

Stannis was not angry, however. “That’s the reason why this has to be clean. My daughter’s reign must start with a clean slate, everything must be done the right way, including the choice of her husband. And I have faith in Devan’s ability. Rigging the competition is an insult to him, showing our lack of faith in him.”

Andrew sighed. “It’s not that simple, Your Grace. Other people might not share the same compulsion towards doing things cleanly. Ser Devan might lose not because he lacks the ability, but because of tricks and games played by others.”

“Then we must guard against that. Put it in the rules, anyone caught cheating or doing anything dirty will be disqualified immediately.”

His own words sounded hollow to his own ears. _Devan could still lose, despite everything. And I have promised them the world, he and Shireen.  
_

He had to tell Shireen, before the council meeting. He must go to her. He grabbed Andrew’s arm, hard.

“Your Grace?”

“I must see my daughter. I must tell her-”

“Send your squire to ask her to come here.”

“No! I must go to her.” He was upright for the briefest of moment, before he was in his cousin’s arms. Then another pair of hands were holding him too, and between them, they managed to get him back in bed.

“I will call Princess Shireen, Your Grace.” His squire’s voice.

“Shireen will understand,” Andrew’s voice this time. “Devan too. They will understand why it is necessary to do it this way.”

“She will understand,” Andrew kept repeating. “Even if Devan loses, she will understand. She knows her duty.”

That was what Devan had said too. Once that would have been the thing that made him proudest of his daughter. But not anymore. He cursed Rhaegar for his folly, Cersei and Jaime for theirs. If not for them, his daughter would not be in this position. But he cursed himself most of all. For fighting a war to gain the throne. _I had to do it, there was no choice, it was my duty._ He told himself that over and over again, and knew the truth of it, and yet still hated himself for it. That was the most painful truth of all, knowing that something was not a mistake, not something to be regretted, and yet still regretting the consequences.


	9. Sons and Daughters

It was odd, Devan thought, the way your life could change almost in an instant. One moment, he had been the fifth son out of seven, and a flash of wildfire later, he was the eldest, the one his father had entrusted to look after his mother and younger brothers, when his father had thought death was coming for him at White Harbor. One moment, he and Shireen had been holding hands, imagining the life they would lead together, and the next, he was just another name on a list of suitors.

They had been interrupted by the king's squire, looking alarmed and in a rush. “His Grace would like to see Princess Shireen,” he had said. “Right now.” Devan had not wanted to go with her, but Shireen had insisted. The look of the king shocked them, he seemed to be in great distress. Lord Andrew Estermont was there too, whispering something to His Grace, trying to calm him down. Shireen went to her father immediately. Lord Estermont made a move to leave, and the king told him to wait outside, to explain things in more detail to Princess Shireen later. Devan discreetly tried to leave with Lord Estermont, but His Grace noticed him for the first time and told him to stay.

That was when he told them about the objections, and the tourney. And the list. Shireen’s face paled, blood draining from it; she quickly tried to hide it. But Devan noticed, and he knew that the king had noticed too.

“Forgive me,” His Grace kept repeating.

“Father no, there is nothing to forgive. If that is what we have to do, then we will do it.” Shireen kept trying to reassure him.

“It has to be done right,” the king said. “There can be no cause for people to complain that Devan has an unfair advantage, that it is all done just as a mummer’s farce. You must prepare yourself for the competition.”

“I will, Your Grace,” Devan replied.

“We will guard against any cheating, of course, but you still might not win. And in that case … in that case ...”

“Devan _will_ win,” Shireen spoke. “He will. There is nothing to be worried about, Father.”

Shireen’s absolute confidence shook Devan’s own. But what if he doesn’t? How could she be so confident? And certain. She glanced at him, and he knew she wanted him to leave her and her father alone. He excused himself, walking out at the sight of her gently stroking her father’s hair and whispering something to him. Devan waited with Lord Estermont outside, neither of them speaking. Lord Estermont looked preoccupied and worried. Shireen came out of her father's room not long after.

“Father is sleeping. Let's talk in his solar.”

Devan finally realized that Shireen’s earlier confidence was just a show for her father’s benefit. She looked as shaken as he himself felt as they sat there listening to Lord Estermont explaining things in more detail.

“There is no other option?” Shireen asked, after Lord Estermont had finished.

“None that His Grace or I could think of,” Lord Estermont replied.

“Then that is what we will have to do,” she said. “And we must hold the tourney as soon as possible.”

Lord Estermont looked surprised. “As soon as possible? Why? Would it not be better to give Ser Devan sufficient time to prepare?”

One look at Shireen’s expression and Devan immediately understood why.

“I want everything to be settled, and the question of my marriage taken care of, before … before -” her voice almost broke.

“I understand,” Lord Estermont said kindly.

“I don’t want my father to spend his last days worrying about that.”

Lord Estermont hesitated, but finally spoke again. “But if the result is not … what is expected, would His Grace not worry more?”

“At least it will be something definite. And I will still have time to try to convince him that I can live with it. Whatever the result is,” Shireen replied.

Lord Estermont nodded, and turned to Devan. “Will you tell your lord father that I will visit him early tomorrow, before the Small Council meeting, to discuss the matter with him?”

“Is that wise, to have Lord Davos involved in the preparation for the tourney, since his son is one of the competitors?” Shireen spoke up. “Perhaps it is better if he is not involved at all. Uncle Andrew, you will take charge of all the preparations.”

Lord Estermont looked like he wanted to argue, but Shireen's expression silenced him. “Yes, my princess,” he replied simply.

Shireen turned to Devan, her face steely and unreadable. “And perhaps it is better that we do not see each other again, before the tourney, to avoid any charge of unfairness.”

Devan’s heart sank, but he knew she was right. “Of course,” he replied.

“I will leave you two to speak,” Lord Estermont said, making a move to leave.

“No, Ser Devan is just leaving. I have other things to discuss with you, Uncle,” Shireen said, in a tone that reminded Devan so much of her father.

She was right again, it would be improper for the two of them to be left together, alone, now that things had taken this turn. But he was dismayed to find that the coldness of her tone had dismayed him. _Stop it!_ He admonished himself. She had many, many things to think about, the fate of the realm, her father. He left the room quietly, turning back at the door at the last minute to see Shireen talking intently with Lord Estermont, no longer conscious of his presence, already moving on to the things that really mattered. He did not think he had ever loved her more than at that very moment.

_______________________

Shireen spotted Devan turning back at the door, and resisted the urge to look at him. _Please_ , she pleaded silently. _Please leave now, or I will not be able to resist the urge to go to you, to embrace you, to cry in your arms._

After Uncle Andrew left, she sat at the chair her father usually sat on. He had not sat there for months, yet she could still see the impression his rigid frame had made on the chair. Or perhaps that was only her illusion. But she could still see it clearly, in her mind, her father sitting on that chair, ramrod straight, his back not resting on the back of the chair, his hands not resting on the arms of the chair. She looked down to see that she was mimicking his posture.

How long would memory last? She was dismayed to find that she could no longer really recall her father’s face before his illness. Would that be how she remembered his features for the rest of her life? Face full of regrets and sadness and unspoken apologies? No, she would not even remember that for long. Even that would fade in time. Along with the memory of the sound of his voice, or the looks he would give when he was annoyed. Impatient. Angry. Dismissive. Satisfied. Content. Happy.

Had her father ever been truly happy?

_I have a duty to the kingdom, like Father. Happiness is a distant thought. Not a priority._

_If Devan loses …_

_He will not._

Of course he could, nothing was guaranteed. She did not have the luxury of illusion, she had to be ready for all eventualities. Married to one of the other men on the list. She could not imagine it. Some of them were nice enough, but none was someone she wished to build a life with. Someone she could love. Someone she already loved. And yet …

“Shireen?”

Her mother’s voice. Her mother walked in, wearing only a coat over her nightdress. Something she would not have done before her father’s illness, wandering the hallway not properly dressed.

“I thought I heard voices from your father’s room, but he’s sleeping when I got there. That boy Arthur won’t tell me anything, only that you were there before. Is he in pain? Should we call the maester?”

Her mother looked exhausted. Confused. Worried. Shireen wanted to lie to her, to reassure her. _Nothing is wrong, Mother. He had a bad dream, that is all,_ she was going to say. But before she knew it, her mother’s hand was stroking her hair and she was only a scared daughter, and the truth came out between the tears and the sobs.

_____________________________

His mother was waiting up for him in the solar when Devan arrived back home. She had fallen asleep on a chair.

“Mother,” Devan called out softly. She woke with a start, smiling when she saw him.

“Were you waiting up for me? I'm sorry I am so late,” Devan said.

“I didn’t think you would be this late. Did the king speak to you all this time? He should not be staying up this late, he should be resting.”

“No, I was talking to Princess Shireen afterward.”

His mother gave a meaningful smile. “There is probably a lot to talk about.” But then the smile turned to a slight frown. “The betrothal is not announced yet, you should be careful for now, and not be too … familiar with each other.”

The mention of betrothal brought a cloud to Devan's face. His mother noticed it immediately.

“What's wrong?” She asked.

He shook his head, not ready to tell her the news. He sat next to his mother, kissing her brows gently.

“Tell me the story about how you and Father met again,” Devan said. She had told him the story countless times before. She looked at him with eyes full of questions, but granted his request.

Marya Seaworth had been a carpenter's daughter. Davos Shorthand, as he was in those days, had hired her father to fix his ship. His smuggling ship. She had dissuaded her father from taking on the commission. _He's a flouter of the law, it might get you in trouble with the law yourself,_ she had admonished her father. She had expected Davos to fly into a rage when her father broke his promise, but he was kind and understanding, only asking for the names of other carpenters who might be willing to do the job. _I know I am in defiance of the law, I will not ask anyone to be as well, if they do not want to be_ , Davos had said.

“Is that when you fell in love with him?” Devan asked, as her mother finished telling the story.

“No, it was when I asked him why he continued to be a smuggler if he knew it was breaking the law.”

“And what did Father say?”

“That laws are man-made. But he is trying to make an honest living for himself, according to his own rules.”

“And you have loved him ever since.”

“Yes, I have. Through … everything. Your brothers, the war, the long separation. It has not been easy, but we love each other still. Now, enough about your father and myself. Tell me what is worrying you?” She took both his hands and grasped them firmly with her own. “Whatever it is, we will face it together.”

His mother’s hand stroking his own made Devan forget for a moment that he was no longer a child. That he was a man and a knight. A man in love, yet still just one name among many on a list. At that moment, he was only a son, who told his mother everything.

  



	10. The Princess and The Knight

“You have led an interesting life, Ser Andrey,” Shireen said to the man walking beside her, after he had finished telling her about his stint serving the lady wife of the late Prince of Dorne in Norvos.

Andrey Dalt was one of the many on The List; he was also the once-was-but-now-no-longer heir to Ser Deziel Dalt, the Knight of Lemonwood.

“So have you, Princess Shireen,” he replied.

“Oh I have not, in truth. I have watched. And waited. Bided my time, some would say, and done nothing else, really.”

“You were a child when the war was fought.”

“I am not a child now.”

Andrey Dalt smiled, an easy smile that sat well on his frank and open countenance. “That, you most certainly are _not_ , Your Grace.”

“How is your brother? Ser Deziel is well, I hope?”

“Very well. His lady wife has delivered him a third son just before I left Lemonwood for King’s Landing. I am glad for my brother, of course. Alas, that takes me further and further away from being his heir, so here I am.”

Shireen laughed. “You are very frank, ser.”

Andrey looked grave. “I do not see the point of dissembling or pretending. You do not strike me as a fool, Your Grace. When you cast your eyes on the men waiting on this field for the tourney to start, I’m sure you see what I see – younger sons and younger brothers, desperate for their moment in the sun to shine, and the chance for glory they never thought would ever come their way.” He paused, looking embarrassed suddenly. “ _Our_ way, I should say. I do not exclude myself, of course.”

“My father was a younger son,” Shireen said, and then quickly looked away. She did not know what had possessed her to say it to this man.

“Perhaps it is that which made His Grace so graciously decided that the tourney should be open only to younger sons and younger brothers.” Andrey hesitated, glancing at a figure watching them from a distance. “Except for one man, it seems.”

Shireen bristled at the implication. “My father’s decree is that the tourney is open to any man who would stand to inherit nothing from his family. Ser Devan has relinquished his inheritance in favor of his younger brother. Any other older sons and older brothers would have been free to do the same. But I suppose,” Shireen mused, “they do not think the prize worth the trouble.”

“It is a risk. The chance of winning … well, it is a risk that many would have feared to take.”

“Would you have taken that chance, were you an eldest son who stood to inherit?” Shireen asked, out of curiosity.

“I would have, once, for another princess. I would have risked anything for her.”

 _And perhaps you already did_ , Shireen thought, suddenly wondering if being sent to Norvos had been a form of punishment for Ser Andrey, for some offense he had committed for the sake of that princess.

She raised an eyebrow. “But not for _thi_ s princess?”

“Would you have believed me if I had said I would?”

“No,” Shireen admitted. “I would have thought much less of you, in fact. But now you have made me curious, ser. Who is this princess you would have willingly taken that chance for?”

For the first time since they started conversing, Andrey Dalt looked evasive and reluctant to speak. Shireen quickly said, “You do not have to confide in me, of course. It was only idle curiosity on my part.”

“It is not for my sake that I am hesitant to speak. The lady in question … well, I –“

“You owe it to her to be discreet. I understand.”

“I hope I have not offended you, Princess Shireen.”

Shireen smiled. “Not at all. It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Ser Andrey.” And now Shireen was suddenly aware of the many eyes watching them, scrutinizing, even speculating, possibly.

Andrey Dalt must have been aware of the same thing, for he said, with some amusement, “Perhaps it is time to favor other participants with your kind attention, Your Grace.”

“Oh yes,” Shireen agreed. “We would not want it to be said that I am playing favorites with some men and not others.”

The knight hesitated. “A word of advice, if Your Grace would be willing to indulge me for a moment?”

“Of course. Please, do not hesitate, Ser Andrey. I would be grateful for it.”

“Avoiding _one_ man in particular, or trying too hard to show no favors to one participant in particular, could also set tongues wagging just as quickly. Your Grace is wise enough to understand of whom I am speaking, I know.”

“Has it been so … obvious?” Shireen asked, with some trepidation.

“Not to other, perhaps. Not yet, though it might be, soon, if the two of you persist on acting as if you were complete strangers to one another, when the whole of the realm know that is not the case at all.”

“But it is already obvious to you, ser?”

“Ah there I have to confess to an unfair advantage over the others.”

“Oh?”

“I was once that knight myself.”

“The knight who loved his princess?”

“The knight who loved the woman who had been his childhood companion.”

Shireen hesitated. She thought she knew who Andrey Dalt’s princess had been. “And did this princess … did she … did she share the knight’s sentiment?”

“That depends,” Andrey Dalt said.

“On what?”

“On which princess and which knight we are talking about.”

_________________

 

He made her laugh. Ser Andrey of House Dalt, Dornishman, younger brother to the Knight of Lemonwood, a man close to thirty, or possibly older – he had done the almost impossible and made Princess Shireen laugh.

Devan’s heart sank at that, before quickly chastising himself for his ungenerous thoughts. Shireen had been mired in sorrow and despondency for months now, since her father’s illness started. He should be glad that someone had managed to make her laugh, to bring back the smile to her face.

Devan chanced another glance at Shireen and the Dornish knight, but this time he saw that Ser Andrey was alone. Shireen had moved forward, speaking now to two young knights from the Riverlands. Andrey Dalt returned Devan’s gaze with an appraising stare. He nodded, and Devan did the same.

“Who is that man? Princess Shireen was speaking to him ever so long,” Stanny whispered to his older brother.

“Ser Andrey Dalt of Lemonwood,” Devan replied, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“A Dornishman? No wonder,” Stanny scoffed, trying to sound jaded and bitter like his namesake Stannis Baratheon, but succeeding only in sounding like a peevish not-quite-a-boy, but-not-yet-a-man.

“There is nothing wrong with a Dornishman, or a Dornishwoman. King Daeron the Second married a Dornish princess and made her queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Devan reminded his brother.

“He was a Targaryen though. Princess Shireen is not,” Stanny said stubbornly, his mouth curled into a grimace.

His brother was angry on his behalf, Devan realized. _Don’t_ , he wanted to say. _There is no reason to be angry. I have no claim on … anything. Or anyone._

“Have you had a quarrel?” Stanny asked, tossing the words out quickly almost as an aside, yet at the same time studiously avoiding his brother’s gaze.

“Who?”

Stanny sighed. “You know who. Don’t pretend you don’t know, Devan. Honestly, you’re worse than Steff sometimes. _I have no clue what you’re talking about_ ,” Stanny said, in a higher voice, mimicking their youngest brother.

Devan laughed, tousling his brother’s hair. “To be fair to Steff, and to me, you do go on so fast sometimes we could hardly follow your reasoning.”

“You and Princess Shireen,” Stanny said slowly, enunciating each word with deliberate care and emphasis. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

 _Or something_ , Devan thought. “No. Why should you think so?”

“Well, for one thing, she has been completely and thoroughly avoiding us in these early morning walks and chats she’s been conducting with the tourney participants.”

“You’re not a participant,” Devan said, smiling. And stalling.

“No, but you are,” Stanny retorted.

 _I am, and that is the only thing I am to the princess_ , Devan reminded himself. One among many. And that was how it should be. He had no right to wish for anything more.

If only he could convince himself to accept that fact.

 


End file.
